IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


4p 


:'r^    i 


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^ 


^ 


7i 


1 1.0    ^^KS 

1.1     l.-^KS 


11= 


11.25 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVi/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  tachniquea  at  bibllographiquaa 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  altar  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checlced  below. 


D 


U 


□ 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couieur 


I"  1    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endomn^agte 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur^  et/ou  peliicuide 

Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  giographiques  en  couieur 


□    Coloured  init  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  blacic)/ 
Encre  de  couieur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

□    Coloured  plates  and/ur  illustrations/ 
Plj 


lanches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couieur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli4  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shaoows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  iiure  ^err^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  IntArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouttes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  ie  texte, 
male,  lorsque  cela  itait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  hxh  filmtes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfifmA  ie  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  iui  a  Ati  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  examplaire  qui  sont  peut  Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  una 
modification  dans  la  m^thode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqjts  ci-dessous. 


I     I   Coloured  pageb/ 


n 


0 


Pages  de  couieur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  ^ndommagtes 

Pages  rastered  and/oi 

Pages  restaur^es  et/ou  pelliculies 


I — I    Pages  damaged/ 

I — I    Pages  rastered  and/or  laminated/ 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  dteoiories,  tachet6es  ou  piquAes 


Pages  detached/ 


Pages  d^tachies 

Showthroughy 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  in^gaie  de  i'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materif 
Comprand  du  materiel  supplAmentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Mition  disponibie 


ry\   Showthrough/ 

I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 

□    Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Coi 

I — I    Only  edition  available/ 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  fauillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  AtA  filmtes  A  nouveau  de  fa^on  h 
obtanir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checlced  below/ 

Ce  docuiiient  est  fiimA  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


A 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


2tX 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Nova  Scotia  Public  Archives 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6ro8it6  de: 

Nova  Scotia  Public  Archives 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustratud  irr.pres- 
sion,  and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shal!  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6x6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  neneti  de  I'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originpux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim^e  sont  film^s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
ddrnidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  pa'  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film^s  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitr?  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  ie  symbole  — ^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN '. 

Lf )  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmes  6  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  6  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  6  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

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85 
W 

o 
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6  'fi 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


A    NOVEL, 


BY 


FLOREK-CE    MAERTAT, 

ACTuon  OF  "the  poison  of  asps,"  etc.,  etc. 


AKu"-*" 


NEW  YORK: 
D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY, 

549  &  651   BROADWAY. 
1875. 

Halifax    X.  S. 

M.    A.    nr.  KLKV    &    CO 


^111  mil** 


\ 


\\ 


\\ 


ilr 


/ 


'  P  takel 


"NO   INTENTIONvS." 


CIIAPTKH  I. 

It  is  toward  the  close  of  a  long,  bright  day  in 
June,  that  a  young  collegian  enters,  somcwhut 
luwtil.v,  the  court-yard  of  an  inn  on  the  outskirts 
i^Onc  of  our  university  towns. 
'■•r'^  "  Holloa  thiTO  !  "  he  calls  sharply  to  a  skulk- 
tM  ostler,  who  rec  'gnizos  him  with  a  touch  of 
(ilii  forelock  ;  "  b-ing  my  hor.'-c  round,  will  you, 
tad  be  quick  about  it !  " 

As  the  ostler  disappears  to  obey  his  orders, 
the  young  man  loans  lazily  against  the  stable  wall, 
and  the  traces  of  some  secret  care  or  annoyance 
are   very   visible   upon  his    countenance,      lie 
ought  to  possess  neither;  for  he  is  young,  good- 
looking,  affluent,  and  of  high  birth,  being  the 
I  second  son  of  the  Earl  of  Norham:  but  what 
I  charm  is  there  to  make  even  earls'  sons  invulner- 
'  able  against  the  effects  of  the  woes  which  they 
create  for  themselves  ?    A  few  months  back  Eric 
Koir  almost  believed  that  the  world  was  made 
for  him  and  men  in  the  same  position  as  himself; 
to-day,  he  would  give  the  world,  were  it  his  own, 
0  bo  able  to  retrace  his  steps  and  undo  that 
hich  is  irremediable.    And  yet  he  has  not  com- 
ileted  his  two-and-twenticth  year  I 

As  the  ostler  brings  his  horse — a  fine  bay 
nimal  of  some  value — up  to  his  side,  Eric  Kcir 
tarts  as  though  he  had  been  dreaming,  and,  seiz- 
g  the  reins  abruptly,  is  about  to  spring  into  the 
ddle.    His  foot,  however,  has  but  reached  the 
Itirrup,  when  he  is  accosted  from  the  other  side. 
"  Why,  Keir,  old  fellow  I  what  an  age  it  is 
incc  we  met!    Where  have  you  been  hiding 
ourself?    I  seem  to  have  seen  scarcely  uny 
/  Jhing  of  you  during  the  whole  term."    And  the 
and  of  Saville  Moxon,  a  fellow-student,  though 
V|\ot  at  the  Oitme  college,  is  thrust  forward  eagerly 
take  his  own. 


At  which  Eric  Kcir  doscpiids  to  earth  again, 
witli  an  ap|)carance  of  being  loss  pleased  than 
embarrassed  at  this  encounter  with  his  friend, 
who  is,  moreover,  intimately  acqtiaintcd  with  nil 
the  members  of  his  family. 

"  If  you  have  not  seen  mo,  Moxon,  it  is  your 
own  fault,"  he  replies,  moodily  ;  "  for  you  know 
where  to  find  me  when  I  am  at  home." 

"  Ah  !  exactly  so,  my  dear  fellow — when  you 
<trc  at  home  ;  but  have  you  any  distinct  reeoUce- 
tion  of  when  you  last  practised  that  rather  nega- 
tive virtue  ?  For  my  part,  I  can  affirm  that  you 
have  sported  the  oak  on,  at  least,  a  dozen  occa- 
sions during  the  last  two  months,  when  I  have 
been  desirous  of  palming  my  irreproachable  com- 
pany upon  you.  What  do  you  do  with  yourself 
out  of  college-hours  ?  " 

At  this  question,  innocent  thougli  it  appears, 
Kcir  visibly  reddens,  and  then  trioh  to  cover  his 
confusion  by  a  rough  answer. 

"  Much  the  same  as  you  do,  I  suppose  ;  much 
the  same  as  every  man  does  who  is  condemned 
to  be  cooped  up  for  three  pr.rts  of  the  year  in 
this  musty  old  town — try  to  forget  that  there  is 
such  a  place." 

But  Saville  Moxon  is  not  to  be  put  out  of  tem- 
per so  easily. 

"  By  riding  out  of  it,  as  you  are  going  to  do 
now,"  he  says,  with  a  light  laugh,  as  he  lays  his 
hand  upon  the  horse's  mane.  "  Where  are  you 
bound  to,  Eric  ?  " 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours?"  is  trem- 
bling upon  the  lips  of  Eric  Keir ;  but  he  represses 
the  inclination  to  utter  it,  and  substitutes  the  an- 
swer, "  Nowhere  in  particular." 

"  Then,  don't  let  me  detain  you.  I  want  to 
speak  to  you,  but  I  can  walk  by  your  side  a  little 
way ;  or,  stay :  I  dare  say  they  have  an  animal  in 
the  stables  they  can  let  mc  have,  and  we'll  take 


i 


NO  IXTLNTIONS." 


1     I 


a  giiUop  t(ij,'(tlar — «s  wi'  iix'.l  to  do  in  tin'  old 
days,  Kelr." 

lint  to  tidii  proposal  Kiiu  Kv\v  iippciir.t  an)' 
tiling  l)Ut  ii^riuublf. 

"JJy  111)  niuan.","  hu  iijoins,  hustiiy.  "At 
least  I  know  they  liuve  nothing  you  would  cure 
to  mount ;  and  I  am  (juito  at  your  ."crvici',  Moxon, 
if  you  wish  to  spuak  to  mc. — Ih.Ti',  osllcr!  hold 
my  horse." 

"Dut,  why  .should  1  ki't'])  you  from  your 
ride?" 

"  lleuiiuse  I  prefer  it ;  prefer,  that  ii  to  sny, 
speaking  to  u  fiicnd  (luietly  to  howling  at  him 
acros.s  the  road.  Let  u.s  turn  out  of  this  court- 
yard, where  every  wall  has  ears  and  evory  win- 
dow a  pair  of  eyes.  And  now  what  is  your  busi- 
ness with  mc  ?  " 

The  young  men  have  gained  the  road  by  tliis 
time,  wliich  is  sufficiently  removed  from  the  town 
to  bo  very  dusty,  and  shaded  by  leafy  trees. 

"  Who  would  ever  have  thought  of  meeting 
you  out  here,  Keir?"  is  Moxon's  fust  remark. 
"  And  how  long  is  it  since  you  developed  a  taste 
for  country  lanes  and  hedges  ?  " 

"  I  don't  admire  quickset  hedges  more  than  I 
ever  did ;  but,  when  a  man  rides  for  exercise,  one 
direction  is  as  good  as  another." 

"  But  what  induced  you  to  remove  your  hor.-u 
from  Turnhill's  ?  Didn't  they  do  justice  to  him  ?  " 

"  Well — yes — "  in  a  hesitating  manner.  ''  I 
had  no  particular  fault  to  find  with  them ;  but 
these  stables  are  more  convenient." 

"Less  so,  I  should  have  imagined.  Why, 
you  Lave  nearly  a  niilo  more  to  walk  to  them." 

"  Terhaps  I  like  walking :  any  way,  that's  my 
business.    What's  yours  ?  " 

At  this  curt  rejoinder,  Saville  Moxon  turns 
round  and  regards  Lira  steadily  in  the  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Keir  ?  "  he  says,  kindly. 
"  Are  you  ill  ?  And,  now  I  come  to  look  at  you, 
you  have  certainly  grown  much  thinner  since  I 
saw  you  last ;  and,  if  you  were  not  such  a  lazy 
fellow,  I  should  say  you  had  been  overworking 
yourself." 

To  which  Keir  responds,  with  a  harsh  laugh  : 

"  Yes,  Moxon,  that's  it — too  much  study.  It's 
on  awfully  bad  thing  for  young  fellows  of  our  age 
— so  trying  to  the  constitution  !    Ha !  ha  1  ha ! " 

"  But  you  really  don't  look  yourself,  Keir,  for 
all  that.  I  am  afraid  you  must  have  been  living 
too  fast.  Don't  do  it,  uear  old  fellow — for  all 
our  sakcs." 

The  affectionate  tone  touches  some  chord  in 
Eric  Eeir's  heart,  and  he  answers,  almost  hum 
bly: 


'■  ImliTil,  I  have  not  bi'i  ii  liviii;;  fa>t,  Moxon; 
on  the  contrary,  I  think  I  ha\<'  ln'i-n  kicpiii)^' 
better  hours  thin  term  than  usual.  One  conns 
so  Hoof.  to  the  I'onvktlon  that  all  that  kind  of 
thing  is  not  only  degrading,  but  w  rong.  Yul  one 
may  have  troubles,  nevcrlhcless.  How  are  all 
your  pcoi)le  at  home  ?  " 

"  Very  well  indeed,  thank  you ;  and  that 
brings  me  to  the  subject  of  my  business  with  you. 
It  i.s  odd  that  I  should  have  met  you  this  after- 
noon,  considering  how  much  separati'd  we  have 
been  of  late ;  for,  if  I  had  not  done  go,  I  slioidd 
have  been  obliged  to  write." 

"  What  about  V  " 

"I  had  a  letter  from  your  brother  Muiraven 
this  morning." 

"Ah! — more  than  I  had;  it's  seldom  either 
of  them  honors  me." 

"I'erhaps  they  despair  of  finding  you — as  I 
almost  began  to  do.  Any  way,  Lord  Muiraven's 
letter  concerns  you  ns  much  as  myself.  He 
wants  lis  to  join  him  in  a  walking-tour.'' 

"  When  ?  " 

"During  the  vacation,  of  course." 

"  Where  to  V  " 

"  Brittany,  I  believe." 

"I  can't  go." 

"  Why  not  ?  it  will  be  a  jolly  chance  for  you. 
And  my  brother  Alick  is  most  anxious  to  be  of 
the  party.  Fancy  what  fun  we  four  should  have ! 
— it  would  seem  like  the  old  schooldays  coming 
over  again." 

"  When  we  were  always  together,  and  always 
in  scrapes,"  Keir  interrupts,  eagerly.  "  I  s/iould 
like  to  go." 

"  What  is  there  to  prevent  you?  " 

His  face  falls  immediately. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — nothing  in  particular — 
only,  I  don't  fancy  it  will  be  such  fun  as  yoti 
imagine ;  these  tours  turn  out  such  awful  fail- 
ures sometimes  ;  besides — "  ' 

"  Besides— what  ?  " 

"  It  will  be  a  great  expense  ;  and  I'm  rather 
out  of  pocket  this  term." 

"  That  is  no  obstacle,  for  you  are  to  go  as 
Muiraven's  guest.  He  says  especially — let  me 
see,  where  is  the  letter?  " — producing  it  from  his 
pocket  as  he  speaks.  "Ah!  here  it  is:  'Tell 
Eric  he  is  to  be  my  guest,  and  so  are  you ' — 
though,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  continues  Moxon, 
as  he  refolds  the  letter  and  puts  it  in  the  enve- 
lope, "  my  accepting  his  offer,  and  your  accepting 
it,  arc  two  very  different  things." 

"  I  can't  go,  nevertheless ;  and  you  may  write 
and  tell  him  so."  I 


EIIIC   KKIU    \Sl)  Ills  FUIENU. 


•iiig  fui^t,  Moxon ; 
If  l)('in  ktepiiii^ 
■  ii.il.  (l:j('  coiui's 
ull  that  kind  of 
wrori;;.  Yd  one 
IS.     lltiw  lilt  nil 

you ;  mill  that 
iu>iiit's^  HJlh  you. 
t  you  tliiH  after- 
jj)iirati'd  wo  have 
iloiii.'  no,  I  siiould 


>rotlicr  Mulrnvcn 

I'.s  si'liloiu  titht'i' 

niliii};  you — as  I 
Lord  Muiravon's 
as   niyseir.     Ilo 
g-touv.'' 

irse." 


f  chance  for  you. 
iixious  to  bo  of 
bur  should  have ! 
ooldays  coming 

thcr,  and  always 
gerly.     "  I  ghould 

3U?" 

in  particular — 
luch  fun  as  you 
such  awful  fail- 


;  and  I'm  rather 

)u  are  to  go  as 
pecially — let  me 
ucing  it  from  his 
lere  it  is:  'Tell 
so  are  you' — 
ontinues  Moxor, 
9  it  in  the  enve- 
d  your  accepting 

id  you  may  write 


"Vo'i  hid  lii'dor  write  yoiM'.-cIf,  Ki'ir ;  yc 
lij.iy  hi!  alili'  t'>  give  your  brntluT  llic  na-ou, 
whkh  you  rofuMO  to  mo." 

AftiT  llii-i,  they  pai'O  up  ami  down  fir  a  few 
niinutos  in  silonoe  ;  iiuiiiil-.'S  wiiioli  ii|)|Mur  lung 
to  Kric  Ki-ir,  for  he  pulls  out  his  watili  iiumii- 
whilo  ti)  H-c'crliiiu  the  hoii!'. 

"  Kill- !  an-  ymi  in  diht  ?  "  nays  Moxon. 

"  Not  II  penny — or,  at  all  evont.s,  nut  a  penny 
that  I  sli.ill  1)0  iinaMi!  to  pay  up  on  deiniind.  Has 
any  <ine  been  infortning  you  to  the  contrary  ?  " 

"  Xo  one — it  was  but  a  surmise.  I  hope, 
t|i(>n— I  hope  there  is  no  truth  in  the  rumor  that 
has  reaehed  nie,  that  you  find  more  charms  in  a 
certain  lilile  village,  not  twenty  niilos  from  Ox- 
ford, than  in  any  thing  the  old  town  eonfains!" 

Saville  Mnxon  is  hardly  prepareil  f<ir  the  ef- 
fect whieli  his  words  ptoduoe.  For  Kric  Keir 
Btop*  short  upon  the  country-path  which  they 
are  truvorsing,  and  the  veins  rise  upon  his  fore- 
head,  and  his  whole  face  darkens  and  changes  be- 
neath the  [la^ision  which  he  cannot  help  exhibit- 
ing, although  he  is  too  courteous  to  give  vent  to 
it  without  further  cause. 

"What  village V  "  he  demands,  (piicl.ly. 

"  Fretterley !  " 

Then  the  knowledge  that  he  is  in  the  wrung, 
and  gossip  in  the  right,  and  that  Boniething  he  is 
very  anxious  to  keep  secret  is  on  the  verge  of  be- 
ing discovered,  gets  the  better  of  F.ric  Keir's  dis- 
cretion, and  he  flares  out  in  an  iiiipetuoi's  man- 
ner, very  much  in  character  with  his  (piiek,  im- 
pulsive nature  : 

"  And  what  the  d — 1  do  your  confounded 
friends  mean  by  meddling  in  my  affairs  ?  " 

"  Who  said  they  were  friends  of  mine  ?  "'  re- 
torts 5[oxon  ;  and  the  laugh  with  whieli  he  says 
it  is  as  oil  cast  on  the  flame  of  Eric  Keir's 
wrath. 

"I  will  allow  of  no  interference  with  any 
thing  I  clioosc  to  do  or  say.  I  am  not  a  child, 
to  he  followed,  and  gaped  at,  and  cackled  about, 
by  n  parcel  of  old  women  in  breeeiies ;  and  you 
may  tell  your  informant  so,  from  me,  ns  soon  as 
you  please." 

"  Keir,  this  is  folly,  and  you  know  it.  Fret- 
terley and  its  doings  are  too  near  at  hand  to  es- 
cape all  observation ;  and  the  fact  of  your  visit- 
ing there,  and  the  vicar  of  the  parish  having  three 
very  pretty  daughters,  is  quite  sufTieient  to  set 
the  gossips  talking;  ))ut  not  to  provoke  such  an 
ebullition  of  anger  from  yourself." 

"  I  don't  care  a  fig  about  the  vicar,  or  his 
daughters  either!  But  I  do  care  to  hear  that  I 
can't  ride  a  mile  in  one  direction  or  another  with- 


out all  Oxfi.il  talking  of  it.  1  h  ito  that  styl.> 
ipf  feiniiiine  ciekle  wliiili  houu'  of  the  fellow-  nf 
the  college'  have  taken  up  ;  and  I  »ay  again,  that 
they  are  a  srt  of  cniilouiided  meddteis;  and.  If  I 
caleli  any  one  of  tluni  prving  into  my  emueii'..^, 
I  won't  leave  him  a  whole  bone  in  his  body  !" 

"  You  are  ehiMi-h  I  "  exclainis  Moxoii.  "  .V- 
I  repeated  the  re|ii)rf,  Keir,  I  sujipose  I  urn  one  ol 
the  '  confounded  meddlers  '  you  allude  to,  and  it 
may  not  be  safe  for  mo  to  remain  longer  in  your 
eonipany.  .Vnd  so,  go(nl-ilay  to  you,  and  u  bet- 
ter siiirit  when  we  meet  ag.iin."  And,  turning 
abruptly  fiiim  him,  he  commences  to  walk  in  the 
direction  of  the  town.  Hut  slowly,  and  somewhat 
sadly  ;  for  he  has  known  Eric  Keii  fruin  lioyhood, 
and,  imiieiioiis  as  he  is  with  strangers,  it  is  not 
often  he  exhih.ts  the  worst  side  of  his  character 
to  his  friends. 

For  a  moment — while  jiride  and  ju>tiee  arc 
struggling  for  the  mastery  within  him — Eric  looks 
at  the  retreating  figure,  and  then,  wiili  sudden 
impulse,  he  strides  hastily  after  Moxoii,  and  ten- 
ders him  his  hand. 

"  Forgive  m,',  Saville!  I  was  wrung — I  li.ird- 
ly  knew  what  I  was  saying.'' 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  confess  it,  sooner  or 
later,  Erie  ;  your  faults  are  all  upon  the  surface." 

And  then  they  shake  hands  heartily,  and  feel 
themselves  again. 

"  But  about  this  Fretterley  bu-^incss,"  says 
Erie,  after  a  slight  hesitation — "stop  the  gossip 
as  much  as  lies  in  your  [lower,  there's  a  good  fel- 
low! For  I  svear  to  you  I  have  no  more  inten- 
tion of  making  love  to  thi-  vii'ar's  daiiglitcrs,  than 
I  have  to  the  vicar  himself." 

"I  never  supposed  you  h.id.  But  when  young 
and  fashionable  men  persist  in  freipienting  one 
locality,  the  lookers-ou  will  draw  their  inferences. 
We  are  not  all  carls'  sous,  remember,  Eric ;  and 
you  dwell  in  the  light  of  an  unenviable  notoriety.'' 

"Unenviable  indeed,  if  even  one's  footsteps 
are  to  be  dogged !  And  fancy  what  my  father 
would  say,  if  such  a  rumor  reached  his  oars  !" 

"  lie  would  think  nothing  of  it,  Keir.  lie 
knows  that  you  love  him  too  well  to  dream  of 
making  a  nustlliamc." 

"Who  t.ilks  of  a  minallianci- i  "  interposes 
the  other,  hurriedly. 

"  Myself  alone.  The  vicar's  daughters,  though 
exceedingly  handsome,  and,  no  doubt,  very  ami- 
able girls,  arc  not  in  the  position  of  life  from 
which  Lord  Xorliam  expects  you  to  chose  a  wife, 
lie  thinks  a  great  deal  of  you,  Eric." 

"  More'a  the  pity ;  he  had  much  better  build 
his  hopes  on  Muiraven  or  Cjcil." 


a 


"  NO  INTKNTIONS." 


?  ■  i 


"<»lil  ('(•.■il  will  invcf  iimiry.  Voimi,'  ns  lie 
l-i,  lio  1b  inurkfd  out  for  a  butliilor.  And  as  fur 
Muiiavi'ii,  lie  will,  ill  all  inolmMlity,  Iiiivi-  to  t>uc- 
liliii.'  Ii'h  inlvutu  iii.sliin.'l.s  to  iPiiMii;  iiiti'i-c.xtM. 
Jk'nlik'.s"  —  in  a  loworoJ  volcu  — "you  nhoiild 
iiivir  foii^it  timt,  well!  any  thin;;  to  liiipiicn  to 
Miilravcii,  till'  Ikijus  of  tlic  family  wduUI  I(L'  Hot 
upon  you." 

"Don't  talk  siii.'li  noiirfi'ii.-i>,  Moxim,  Jliiir- 
avon'M  lik'  is  worth  tun  ot  tiiinc,  thank  (ioJ  !  and 
("ceil  and  I  mean  to  iiff.Jcrvo  our  lihi'ily  intact, 
and  k'uvo  inarriatjc  for  the  youiij;  and  the  fray; 
yoiiiHclf,  jiiir  cini}]ili'," 

"  Call  a  poor  devil  who  has  nc-tliiii;;  but  his 
own  Inains  to  look  to  for  a  subsistence,  youiif^ 
:ind  t'ay  ?  JFy  dear  boy,  you'll  be  a  <;randratlier 
before  I  have  succeeded  in  induiiiij;  any  woman 
to  accept  my  nana;  and  nothin;,'  a  year." 

"  Ugh  ! " — with  a  shudder — "  what  an  aw  I'ul 
luospeet!     I'd  as  soon  han;;  myself." 

"  \Vcll  it  needn't  worry  you  just  yet,"  says 
Moxon,  with  a  hingh.  "  Hut  I  must  not  keep  you 
liny  lunj;er  from  your  ride.  Shall  you  be  in  your 
rooms  to-morrow  evening,  Keir  ?  " 

"  Prol>ably — that  Is,  I  will  make  o  point  of 
1)eing  there,  if  you  will  come  and  take  supper 
with  me.  ^\nd  brinj^over  Summers  and  Charlton 
with  you.  And  look  here,  Moxon — step  this  con- 
founded rumor  about  me,  at  all  ha/.ard;f,  for  Ifcav- 
eu's  sake ! " 

"  If  there  is  no  truth  in  it,  wliy  should  you 
object  to  its  circulation  ?  "  iiiijuires  Jfoxon,  ))lnntly, 

"  There  is  no  truth  in  it.  I  liardly  know  the 
man  by  sight,  or  his  daughters ;  but  y-^u  are 
aware  of  my  father's  peculiarities,  and  how  the 
kast  idea  of  such  a  thing  would  worry  him."' 

"  AVc  should  have  Lord  Xorham  down  here  in 
no  time,  to  find  out  the  truth  for  himself.  Fo  it's 
lucky  for  you,  old  fellow"  —  ol)Scrving  Keir's 
knitted  brows — "  that  there's  nothing  for  him  to 
find  out." 

"Yes — of  course ;  but  I  hate  every  thing  in 
the  shape  of  town-talk,  true  or  otherwise." 

"There  shall  be  no  more,  if  I  can  jn-event  it, 
Keir.     Good-by!" 

"  Good-by,  till  to-morrow  evening  ;  and  don't 
be  later  than  ten." 

lie  remains  on  the  spot  wliere  SaviUc  Moxon 
left  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  turns,  musingly, 
toward  the  court-yard  of  the  inn  again. 

"  What  on  earth  can  have  put  Frettcrley  into 

thoir  lieads,"  he  ponders,  "  when  I  h.ive  been  so 

scrupulously  careful,  that  oven  the  ostler  at  the 

.  village  inn  doesn't  know  me  by  my  right  name  ? 

It's  an  awful  nuisance,  and  will  entail  a  move  at 


the  very  tlino  w hen  I  i  iin  Kaxt  aflord  it.  My  ucu- 
al  luck  !  "  And,  with  a  shrug  of  the  tihouldir!<, 
Kiic  Keir  I'ei'iilers  the  ctablc-yard.     The  miin  is 

still  wailing  then;  with  his  li ,  and,  when  the 

gentletiian  is  mounted,  he  touehc*  h\i  cap  and 
asks  when  he  may  be  cxpt'cted  to  return. 

"Impossible  to  siiy,"  is  the  iiiisati.-fai  lory  ro« 
joinder ;  and  in  unotiier  miniito  Keir  lias  driven 
his  spurs  into  the  animal's  sides  and  i.-;  giilloping, 
to  make  up  for  lost  time,  rdong  tlie  road  which 
leads — to  Frettcrley. 

As  he  rides  liurriedly  and  carelessly  along,  hifl 
thoiiL'lits  are  eoiillietiiig  and  uneasy.  His  impul- 
sive and  uiilhinking  nature  has  led  him  into  the 
commission  of  an  act  whieli  is  more  than  rash — 
which  is  unpariloiialile,  and  of  which  he  alreiidy 
bitterly  repeiit.s;  and  he  sees  the  cd'eet  of  tidu 
youthful  folly  dosing  about  him  and  lu'dglng  h'i.\ 
In,  and  the  trouble  it  will  probiiMy  entiil,  slrctch- 
iiig  out  over  a  long  visla  of  coming  years,  to  end 
perhaps  oi\Iy  with  his  life. 

He  knows  that  his  father  (a  most  loving  and 
afl'ectionatc  father,  of  whom  he  has  no  fear  be- 
yond that  begotten  by  the  dread  of  wounding  his 
affection)  cherishes  high  hopes  for  him  and  ex- 
pects great  things — greater  things  than  Kric  thiiika 
he  has  the  power  of  performing.  For  Lord  Muir- 
aven,  though  a  young  man  of  sterling  merit — "  the 
dearest  fellow  in  the  world,"  as  his  brothers  will 
inform  you — is  not  clever :  he  knows  it  himself, 
and  all  his  friends  know  it,  and  that  Eric  has  the 
advantage  over  him,  not  only  in  personal  appear- 
ance, but  in  brains.  And,  though  it  would  be  too 
much  to  aflirm  that  Lord  Xorham  has  ever 
wished  his  sons  could  change  jdaces,  there  is  no 
doubt  that,  while  ho  looks  on  Jluiravcn  as  the 
one  who  shall  carry  on  his  titles  to  a  future  ganer- 
ation,  his  pride  is  fixed  on  Erie ;  and  the  ease  with 
which  the  young  fellow  has  disposed  of  his  uni- 
versity examinations,  and  the  passport  into  society 
his  agreeable  manners  have  gained  .""or  him,  are 
topics  of  unfailing  interest  to  the  earl. 

And  it  is  this  knowledge,  added  to  the  remem- 
brance of  a  motherless  childhood  sheltered  by 
paternal  care  from  every  sorrow,  that  makes  his 
own  conduct  smite  so  bitterly  on  the  heart  of 
Eric  Keir.  How  could  he  have  done  it  ?  Oh ! 
what  a  fool — what  an  ungrateful,  unpardonable 
fool  ho  has  made  of  himself  I  And  there  is  no 
way  out  of  the  evil :  he  has  destroyed  that  which 
■will  not  bear  patching — his  Bclf-respcct !  As 
the  conviction  presses  home  to  him,  tears,  wliich 
do  him  no  dishonor,  rise  to  his  eyes,  yet  arc  forced 
back  again,  as  though  to  weep  had  been  a  sin. 


m^ 


MVRA'S  SUSncIONS. 


It.   My  ii«u. 
no  uliduMt  ri", 

Tho  rimn  in 
nil,  wlicu  tlio 
Ih.s  ('iii>  iin<l 
.'turn. 

ili.-fiu  tiiry  rtv 
ir  liiiH  tliiviii 
1  li:  gulloplnp, 
M  road  wliii'li 


snly  nlon;,',  liin 
.  Hi.-*  iinpiil- 
,  him  into  the 
(•  tluin  ri\Ai — 
ch  lie  ahcmly 
iH'ott  <if  thiii 
il  hril(j;iiin  h'i.\ 
t'litiil,  stretch. 
;  yiiirn,  to  end 

Hit  loving  and 
us  no  IV'iir  he- 
r  wounding  his 
ir  bim  and  ex- 
haiiKrie  thiid.si 
I'or  Lord  Muir- 
ig  merit—"  the 
s  brothers  will 


at 


d 


d 


s  it  liiinself, 
Kric  haa  the 
onal  nppear- 
would  be  too 
am   has   ever 
3,  there  id  no 
raven  as  the 
i'liturc  gcuier- 
the  cnso  with 
id  of  his  uni- 
ort  into  society 
or  him,  are 
■I 

to  the  remem- 

bheltcred   by 

liat  makes  his 

the  heart  of 

one  it?     Oh! 

unpardonable 

d  there  is  no 

cd  that  which 

respect !      As 

,  tears,  which 

yet  are  forced 

d  been  a  sin. 


I 


Uow  much  tho  creature*  iiuher  who  ciiimot  or 
who  daro  not  cry !  Uod  gave  ready  teara  to 
women,  in  coii»iiler.itiuii  of  tiieir  weakness— it  is 
oidy  itrong  hearts  and  stiotiger  mluds  that  caa 
boar  torture  with  dry  eyes. 

JIul  tiiero  is  little  trace  of  weakness  left  on 
the  face  of  Kric  Keir,  as,  after  an  hour's  hard  rid- 
ing, he  draws  rein  before  tlie  village  hm  of  Fret- 
teiley,  The  young  collegian  Beems  wt  11  known 
there;  for  before  he  has  had  time  to  summon  'ho 
ostler,  the  landlord  himself  appears  at  the  front- 
.  door,  to  case  him  of  his  rein,  and  is  shouting  for 
some  one  to  come  and  '"(/Id  .\[r.  'Auiiiton's'orse  " 
while  he  draws  "  Mr.  'Amilton's  beer." 

"Mr.  'Amilton"  appears  to  respond  but  lon- 
guidly  to  the  exertions  made  on  his  behalf;  for 
he  drinks  the  beer  which  is  handed  him,  mechan- 
ically, and,  without  further  comment,  turns  on  his 
hiel,  much  to  the  disappointment  of  the  landlord, 
who  has  learneil  to  look  regularly  for  tiie  ofTer  of 
one  of  those  choice  cigarg  of  which  tho  young 
gentleman  is  usually  so  lavish. 

"  Something  up  there,  I  bet,"  ho  remarks  to 
the  partner  of  his  bosom  ;  "  getting  tired  of  her, 
I  shouldn't  wonder  :  they  all  does  it,  sooner  or 
later.     Men  will  be  men." 

"  Men  will  bo  men  ?  men  will  be  brutes,  you 
mean  1 "  she  retorts  in  her  shrill  treble ;  and,  from 
tho  sound  of  her  voice,  the  landlord  thinks  it  as 
well  not  to  p\ir.iue  the  subject  any  further. 

Not  afraid  of  her — oh,  dear  no !    What  hus- 
band ever  was  afraid  of  any  thing  so  insigiiiftcant 
as  tho  weaker  vessel  ? — only —    Well,  landlord, 
have  it  thine  own  way ;  it  does  us  no  harm  ! 
,      Meanwhile  Eric  Keir  has  walked  beyond  the 
.tillage,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  to  where  a 
;1|niall  farm-cottage,  surrounded   by  a  garden  of 
Ifhrubs,   staiids    back    from    the  highway.     lie 
pushes  open  the  ])ainted  wicket  with   his  foot, 
Jnoro  impetuously  than  he  need  have  done,  and 
;tBdvance3  to  the  hall-door.     Before  he  can  knock 
'or  ring,  it  is  thrown  open  to  him,  and  a  woman 
^ings  herself  upon  his  neck. 
Hy      She  is  a  girl  still,  though  several  years  older 
|lhan  himself ;  but  a  woman  is  in  the  glow  of 
■  jrouth  at  five-and-twenty :   and  this  woman  has 
jot  only  youth  but  beauty. 

"  I  wish  you  would  remember,  Myra,  that  I 
am  standing  at  the  front-door,  and  reserve  these 
demonstrations  of  affection  for  a  more  private 
,  place.     I  have  told  you  of  it  so  often." 

Ho  disengages  her  arms  from  his  throat  as  he 
Ispeaka,  and  her  countenance  lowers  and  changes. 
jit  is  easy  to  see  that  she  is  quick  to  take  offense, 
land  that  the  repulse  has  wounded  her.    So  they 


\MM  into  the  sitting-room  in  silenee,  and  whilo 
Krio  Keir,  mouareh  uf  all  he  surveys,  thruwtf 
liiniself  into  an  easy-ehair,  she  stands  by  the  table, 
somewhat  sulkily,  waiting  for  him  to  make  the 
next  udvance..>. 

"  Is  old  Jl.irgarit  at  home,  Myra  ':'  " 

"  I  believe  s..." 

"  Tell  her  to  tuing  me  some  claret.  1  seem 
to  have  swallowed  all  the  dust  between  this  and 
Oxford." 

She  does  his  biilding,  bringing  the  wine  with 
her  ownh mds,  and,  when  she  has  served  him,  she 
sits  down  by  tho  window. 

"  Come  here,  child,"  ho  says  presently,  in  a 
patronizing,  yet  authoritative  voice  that  accords 
strangely  with  his  l)oyi3h  exterior.  "  What's  tli« 
nuitter  with  you  to-day  ?  why  won't  you  speak  to 
me » " 

"  llreause  you  don't  care  to  hear  me  speak," 
she  answers  in  a  low  touc,  full  of  emotion,  as  she 
kneels  beside  his  chair.  Hho  has  large,  lustrous, 
dark  eyes,  and  soft  brown  hair  that  flows  and  curls 
about  her  ueek,  and  a  pair  of  passionate  red  lips 
that  aro  on  a  dangerous  level  with  his  own. 
What  man  could  resist  them  1  liut  Erie  Keir's 
mustached  mouth  bonds  down  to  press  her  up- 
turned forehead  only.  It  is  evident  that  she  '  s 
lost  her  power  to  charu.  him.  Yet  his  i  .  ia 
uut  only  patient  but  kind. 

"  What  has  put  that  nonsense  into }  .  i  head  ? 
Don't  make  more  worries  than  you  nnd,  Myra; 
we  have  enough  already,  Ileaven  knows !  " 

"Ihit  why  haven't  you  boon  to  .see  me  for  so 
many  days,  then  ?  You  don't  know  how  long 
the  time  seems  without  you!  Are  you  getting 
tired  of  mo,  Eric  ?" 

"  Tired!" — with  a  smile  that  is  sadder  than 
a  sigh.  "  It  is  early  davs  for  you  and  me  to  talk 
of  getting  tired  of  each  other,  Myra,  Haven't  wo 
made  all  kinds  of  vows  to  pass  our  lives  togeth- 


er 


s" 


"  Then  why  have  you  been  such  a  time 
away  ? " 

"  I  have  had  business  to  detain  me ;  it  was 
impossible  to  come  before." 

"  What  sort  of  business  ?  " 

"  Engagements — at  college  and  among  my 
friends." 

"  Friends  whom  you  love  more  than  me ! " 
she  retorts  quickly,  her  jealous  disposition  imme- 
diately on  the  qui  vive, 

"  It  is  not  fair  for  you  to  say  so,  Myra.  I  can 
give  you  no  greater  proof  of  my  attachment  than 
I  have  already  given." 

"  Ah !  but  I  want  more,  Eric.    I  want  to  be 


8 


'NO  INTENTIOrS." 


Vi 


u'i 


r 


with  you  always  :  to  leave  you  neither  day  nor 
night :  to  have  the  right  to  share  in  your  pleas- 
ures  and  your  pains." 

Ho  frowns  visibly. 

"More  pains  than  pleasures,  as  you  would 
find,  Myra.  But  it  is  impossible ;  I  have  told 
you  so  already ;  tho  circumstanees  of  the  case 
forbid  it." 

"  How  can  I  teH,  when  you  arc  rbscnt,  if 
you  arc  always  thinking  of  me? — if  some  other 
woman  does  not  take  my  place  in  your  heart  ?  " 

"  You  must  trust  me,  Myra,  I  am  a  gentle- 
man, and  I  tell  you  that  it  is  not  the  case— and  it 
never  will  be." 

"  Ah !  but  you  cannot  tell — you  cannot  tell ! " 
And  here  she  falls  to  weeping,  and  buries  her  face 
upon  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  My  poor  girl !  "  says  Keir,  compassionate- 

ly. 

He  does  not  love  her — that  is  to  say,  he  docs 
not  love  as  he  thought  ho  did  three  month. s  ago, 
when  ho  believed  that  he  was  doing  a  generous 
a'id  chivalrous  thing  in  raising  her  from  her  low 
estate  to  the  position  she  now  occupies,  and 
swearing  unalterable  fidelity  at  her  feet — but  he 
feels  tho  deepest  pity,  both  for  her  and  for  him- 
self— and  he  would  wipe  out  the  past  with  his 
blood,  if  it  were  possible. 

"  My  poor  girl — my  poor  Myra ! "  stroking  the 
luxuriant,  hair  which  is  flung  across  his  knee — 
"  wo  have  much  to  forgive  each  other !  Did  ever 
mu'.i  and  woman  drag  each  other  more  irrepa- 
rably down  than  we  have  done  ?  " 

"  You  have  ceased  to  love  me — I  know  you 
have !  "  she  continues,  through  her  tears. 

"  Why  should  you  torture  me  with  such  an 
accusation,"  he  says,  impatiently,  as  he  shaken 
himself  free  of  the  clinging  arms,  and,  rising, 
walks  to  tho  window,  "  when  I  have  already  as- 
sured you  that  it  is  not  true  ?  \VTiat  have  I  done 
to  make  you  imagine  I  am  changed  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  come  to  see  me — you  do  not 
caress  me — you  do  not  even  look  at  me  as  you 
used  to  do." 

"  Good  Heavens !  for  how  long  do  you  expect 
me  to  go  on  •  looking ' — whatever  th^t  operation 
may  consist  of?" 

"  0  Eric !  you  cannot  deceive  me :  you  know 
you  are  sorry  that  we  ever  met." 

Sorry — ay,  Cod  knows  that  he  is  sorry ;  but 
he  will  not  tell  her  so.  Yet  neither  will  he  fly  to 
h<)t  cmbra  ce,  as  three  months  back  he  would  have 
done,  to  assure  her  that  she  dons  his  love  a  cruel 
wrong  by  the  suspicion.  He  only  stands  quietly 
by  the  open  window,  and,  taking  a  cigar  from  his 


case,  lights  it  and  commences  smoking;  while 
she  contmues  to  sob,  in  an  angry,  injured  manner 
by  tho  arm-chair  where  he  left  her. 

"  Myra !  I  have  but  a  short  time  to  stay  hero 
to-day ;  why  shouldn't  we  pass  it  pleasantly  to- 
gether ?  Upon  my  word,  it'  you  go  on  like  this 
every  time  wo  meet,  you  will  make  the  place  too 
hot  to  hold  me.  Come — dry  your  eyes,  like  a 
good  girl,  and  tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing 
since  I  saw  you  last." 

She  dashes  away  her  tears,  and  rises  from  her 
kneeling  posture ;  but  there  is  still  a  tone  of  sul- 
Icnncss  or  pride  in'the  voice  with  which  she  an- 
swers him. 

"  What  should  I  have  been  doing,  but  waiting 
for  your  arrival  ?  I  should  have  gone  to  Oxford, 
most  probably,  and  tried  to  find  your  rooms,  if 
you  had  not  appeared  this  evening." 

"  You  had  better  not  attempt  that,"  he  says, 
decisively. 

"  But  you  neglect  me,  Eric :  even  old  Margaret 
remarks  it ;  and  the  vicar  said — " 

"  The  vicar ! " — stt  rting.  "  When  did  you 
see  the  vicar  ?  " 

"  The  day  before  yesterday,  when  he  called 
here." 

"Who  let  him  in?" 

"  /  did !  "—rather  defiantly.  "  Old  Margaret 
was  out." 

"And  what  communication  passed  between 
you  ?  " 

"  He  asked  if  my  name  was  Mrs.  Hamilton  ? 
— and  I  said  '  Yes.'  " 

"  What  on  earth  made  you  say  so  ?  " 

"Well — haven't  you  always  called  me  Mrs. 
Hamilton  7  Isn't  it  the  Lame  I  go  by  in  the  vil- 
lage ? " 

"  Not  through  my  means,  Myra.  I  have- 
never  mentioned  you  to  anybody,  in  Fretterlcy 
or  out  of  it.  And  pray,  what  had  the  vicar  to 
say  to  •  Mrs.  Hamilton  ? '  " 

"  He  asked  if  you  were  Mr.  Hamilton  ;  he  ht».i 
seen  you  riding  through  the  village,  and — " 

"  Don't  tell  me  that  you  connected  our  names 
together  before  him!"  interrupts  Keir,  with  a 
look  of  anger. 

"  Well !— what  was  I  to  say  ?  " 

"  niiat  were  yo»  to  tay  t  You  knew  well 
enough  what  to  say  to  get  yourself  or  me  out  of 
a  scrape,  a  few  months  back.  But  I  see  through 
your  design,  Myra — you  want  to  force  me  to  do 
that  agains*  which  you  know  I  am  determined." 

"I  cannot  bear  this  continual  separation," 
she  replies ;  "  it  is  killing  me.  I  cannot  live 
without  you." 


.1 


'1 


"■^-\. 


LOVE  AND  PRIDE. 


0 


moking;  while 
injured  manner 

to  to  stay  hero 
t  pleasantly  to- 
p  on  like  this 
;  the  place  too 
ir  eyes,  like  a 
ivo  been  doing 

i  rises  from  her 

11  a  tone  of  sul- 

which  sho  an- 

ing,  but  waiting 
gone  to  Oxford, 
your  rooms,  if 

that,"  he  says, 
rcn  old  Margaret 
When  did  you 

when  ho  called 


"Old  Margaret 

passed  between 

Mrs.  Hamilton? 

lyso?" 

called  me  Mrs, 
go  by  in  the  vil- 

Myra.  I  have 
dy,  in  Fretterlcy 
ad  the  vicar  to 

lamilton ;  he  hun 
ige,  and — " 
lected  our  names 
pts  Kelp,  with  a 


You  knew  well 
self  or  me  out  of 
lutlsee  through 
0  force  me  to  do 

determined." 
lual  separation," 

I  cannot  live 


"  Listen  to  me,  Myra,"  he  says,  approaching 
closer  to  entorco  his  argument.  "  Vou  say  you 
cannot  b^ar  this  separation;  but  if  you  attempt 
to  elude  it  by  any  dcvit-cs  of  your  own,  you  shall 
never  sec  me  again.  You  cannot  say  that  I  have 
deceived  you ;  you  threw  in  your  lot  with  mine  jf 
your  free  consent ;  more  than  that — you  urged 
mc  to  the  step  which  has  brought,  God  knows, 
its  retribution  with  it.  But  if  you  make  our  po- 
sition public,  you  will  do  mc  an  irremediable 
wrong,  and  injury  your  own  cause.  .So  I  warn 
you  ! " 

"  Of  what  ?  " 

"  That  3uspicion  has  already  fiiUcn  upnn  nic 
for  being  foolish  enough  to  visit  you  so  openly  : 
80  much  so,  that  I  had  decided,  before  coniin>; 
here  to-day,  to  move  you  as  soon  as  possible 
from  Fretterley  ;  and,  if  the  rumor  is  not  stopped 
by  that  means,  I  shall  go  away  till  it  is  for- 
gotten." 

"  Where  ?  "  sho  inquires,  breathlessly. 

"  In  the  countrj',  or  abroad ;  anywhere  to 
balk  the  gossips." 

"  And  without  me,  Erie  ?  " 

"  Without  you  ?  Of  course.  What  good 
would  it  do  if  I  took  you  with  me  ?  Why,  if  the 
least  hint  of  such  a  thing  were  to  reach  my 
father's  ears,  ho  would  ask  me  all  about  it,  and 
I  should  tell  him  the  truth.  I  have  never  told 
him  any  thing  but  the  truth,"  adds  the  young 
fellow,  simply;  "and  I  believe  it  would  kill 
him." 

"  And  you  would  give  me  up  for  your  father  ?  " 
she  says,  quickly. 

"  A  thousand  times  over !  My  father  is  every 
thing  in  the  world  to  me ;  and  I  can't  think  how 
I  ever  could  have  permitted  myself  to  do  that 
which  would  so  much  grieve  him." 

A  dark  flush  overspreads  her  handsome  feat- 
ures as  she  hears  the  unpalatable  truth,  and  her 
full  breast  heaves  and  her  lips  tremble  with  the 
deep  pain  it  causes  her.  She  is  passing  through 
the  greatest  agony  a  woman  is  capable  of  feeling . 
coming  gradually,  but  surely,  to  the  conviction 
that  her  reign  is  over,  her  empire  overthrown — 
that  she  has  lost  her  place  in  her  lover's  heart. 

And  she  loves  him  so  passionately ;  she  has 
always  cared  for  him  far  more  than  he  has  done 
lor  her,  and  his  increasing  coldness  drives  her 
mad. 

"  You  said  that  I  was  every  thing  in  the  world 
to  you,  three  months  ago,"  she  answers,  with  set 
teeth. 

"  I  know  I  did ;  and  at  tb"  time  I  believed  it 
io  bo  true.    But  I  have  told  you,  Myra,  what  a 


proud,  high  family  mine  is,  and  how  sokloin  their 
cscutcluon  has  been  tarnished  with  dishonor. 
And — forfrive  me  for  saying  so — I  know  it  is  my 
own  fault,  but  I  cannot  help  being  conscious  of 
tlie  fact  that  I  have  tarnished  it  now.  And  my 
poor  father  thinks  so  much — too  mudi  of  me ;  I 
feel  as  though  I  should  never  be  able  to  look  him 
in  the  face  again."  And  with  that,  Eric  Keir 
buries  his  own  face  in  his  hands. 

Slio  taps  the  floor  impatiently  with  her  foot. 

"  You  arc  ashamed  of  me,  Eric." 

"  I  am  bitterly  ashamed  of  mysdf,  and  of  all 
that  lia>  passed  bet'"ocn  us." 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  \vc  iiad  never 
met." 

"Far  bettor  —  both  for  you  and  for  myself. 
Who  could  think  otherwise  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  better,  perhaps,  if  I  were  dead." 

"  It  would  be  better  if  we  were  both  dead," 
ho  exclaims,  bitterly ;  "  or  had  died  before  we 
saw  each  other.  0  Myra — Myra !  why  will  you 
wring  such  cruel  truths  from  my  mouth  ?  you 
have  been  the  death  of  all  good  things  in  mc." 

lie  lifts  his  face  to  hers,  and  she  is  shocked 
to  see  the  pain  portrayed  there.  She  is  an  illiter- 
ate, low-born  woman,  with  nothing  to  recommend 
her  beyond  her  beauty  and  her  fierce  love  for  him, 
which,  yet,  is  like  t'lc  love  of  an  unreasoning 
animal,  overpowering  when  encouraged,  and  apt 
to  turn  the  first  time  it  is  thwarted.  But  she  has 
one  indomitable  passion — pride,  and  it  is  stirring 
and  working  in  her  now. 

"  Would  you  be  1  appy  if  you  could  undo  the 
past?"  she  says  in  a  low  voice;  "if  there  had 
been  no  such  person  as  me  in  the  world,  and  you 
had  never  fancied  that  you  loved  me  ?  " 

"  Happy  I "  he  answers,  with  a  sad  laugh. 
"  I  should  be  happy  if  I  could  wipe  out  the  re- 
membrance with  my  blood ;  if  I  could  go  about 
the  world  with  a  free  conscience  at  the  expense 
of  every  thing  that  I  possess.  But  come,  Myra, 
let  us  talk  no  more  of  impossibilities.  The  past 
is  past,  my  child,  and  nothing  you  or  I  can  say 
will  ever  undo  it.  Let  us  think  of  the  present. 
It  is  necessary  you  should  leave  Fretterley  — 
where  would  you  like  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care.    You  may  choose  for  mc." 

"  Very  well,  then ;  I  will  think  the  matter 
over,  and  let  you  know.  I  sha'n't  bo  able  to  come 
here  to-morrow,  as  I  have  an  engagement  in  the 
town ;  but  the  day  after  you  may  depend  on  see- 
ing me.  Do  you  want  any  money  ? "  taking  out 
his  purse. 

But  she  shrinks  from  the  note  he  offers  he.* 
as  though  it  bad  been  a  serpent- 


10 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


"No — no!  lam  not  in  want  of  it  ;  I  have 
plenty  to  serve  nay  need." 

"All  the  better  for  me,"  lie  Sfiya,  laughing. 
He  htti  recovered  hia  spiiita  again ;  clouds  arc 
not  long  in  passing  yi'nh  the  young. 

"  Well — good-by,"  Lo  continues,  as  ho  takes 
the  gill  in  his  arms  and  kisses  her,  in  a  fraternal 
manner,  on  tlie  cheek.  "  It's  a  shame  of  me  to 
have  made  those  pretty  eyes  so  red  I  Don't 
think  twice  of  what  I  have  said,  Myra ;  you 
urged  nic  on  to  it  with  your  cross-questioning, 
and  you  know  I  lament  this  business  for  both  our 
sakes ;  but  the  dark  mood  will  be  gone  to-morro\v. 
It's  nothing  unusual  after  three  months  of  honey- 
moon, my  dear." 

She  clings  to  him  frantically  close,  but  she 
says  nothing. 

"  Why,  won't  you  say  good-by  ?  Then  I  must 
go  without  it,  for  I  have  no  more  time  to  lose." 

He  is  moving  toward  the  door,  when  she  flies 
after  him,  and  almost  stifles  him  iu  her  embrace. 

"  Oh,  good-by,  my  love  ! — my  darling ! — my 
own,  own.  dearest  love  ! " 

She  showers  kisses,  almost  roughly,  on  his 
mouth,  his  eyes,  his  brow — kisses  which  lie  ac- 
cepts rather  philosophically  than  otherwise,  and 
from  which  he  frees  himself  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Alas  I  for  the  love  of  one-and-twcnty,  when  it 
begins  to  temper  its  enthusiasm  with  philosophy  ! 

As,  with  a  cheerful  nod,  he  turns  out  of  the 
wicket-gate,  the  woman  stands  gazing  after  him 
08  though  she  had  been  turned  to  stone ;  and, 
when  hu  has  finally  disappeared,  she  gropes  her 
way  back  to  the  sitting-room,  and  casts  herself 
headlong  on  the  floor. 

"  Gone — gone !  "  she  moans  ;  "  all  gone,  and 
my  life  gone  with  it !  Oh,  I  wish  that  I  was  dead 
— I  wish  that  I  was  hurried — I  wish  that  I  could 
neither  feel  nor  think — I  am  nothing  to  him 
now — " 

She  lies  there  for,  perhaps,  an  hour,  sobbing 
and  moaning  to  herself;  and  is  only  roused  by  the 
entrance  of  the  old  woman  she  calls  Margaret, 
with  the  preparations  for  her  tea,  and  whose 
grunt  at  perceiving  her  attitude  is  half  of  com- 
passion and  half  of  contempt. 

"  Lord  ha'  mussy ! "  she  exclaims,  "  and  what- 
ever are  you  a  lying  on  the  boards  for  ?  " 

This  woman,  who  is  c'othed  and  kept  like  one 
of  gentle  birth,  and  by  v  lom  she  is  fed  and  paid 
her  wages,  is  yet  not  :  Iressed  by  llargaret  in 
terms  befitting  a  servani  to  use  toward  her  mis- 
tress. The  poor  are  ever  keenest  at  detecting  a 
would  be  lady  from  a  real  one. 


The  familiar  tone  afifi-onts  Myra ;  she  reads  in 
it,  not  sympathy,  but  rebellion  against  her  new- 
born dignity,  and  she  rises  and  sweeps  out  of  the 
room,  without  deigning  to  notice  the  presencf  of 
her  factotum. 

But  the  bedroom  is  solitary  and  full  of  sad 
remembruicc,  and  in  a  few  miimtes  she  emerges 
from  it,  dressed  for  walking,  and  saunters  in  the 
garden. 

It  is  a  queer  little  nest  that  Eric  Eeir  has 
chuo^u  for  her ;  being  originally  intended  for  the 
game-koeper'a  cottage  on  an  estate  which  has 
long  since  been  parted  with,  acre  by  acre,  and  its 
■very  name  sunk  in  the  obscurity  of  three  or  four 
small  farms  ;  so  that  the  cottage  stands  alone  in 
the  niidst  of  wheat  and  barley  fields ;  and  it  is 
through  rue  of  these,  where  the  grain,  young,  and 
green,  and  tender,  and  not  higher  than  a  two 
years'  child,  springs  up  on  each  side  of  her,  that 
Myra,  still  burning  as  under  the  sense  of  a  deep 
outrage,  takes  her  way.  A  resolution  has  been 
growing  up  in  her  heart  during  the  last  hour  which, 
betwixt  its  pride  and  stubbornness,  it  will  not  easi- 
ly relinquish—the  resolutiofa  to  part  with  Eric  Kcir. 

It  wrenches  her  very  soul  even  to  think  of 
such  a  thing,  and  as  she  resolves  impossible  ways 
and  means  for  its  accomplishment,  her  breath  is 
hardly  drawn  ;  but  she  has  a  will  of  iron,  and  he 
has  wounded  her  in  her  most  vulnerable  part. 
As  she  paces  slowly  up  and  down  the  narrow 
field-path,  the  jealous,  angry  tears  scarce  dried 
upon  her  checks,  she  hears  a  rustle  in  the  com 
behind  her,  and  the  next  moment  some  one 
touches  her  upon  the  shoulder. 

Myra  is  not  chicken-hearted,  but  she  is  quick 
to  resent  an  insult. 

"Uow  dare  you?"  she  commences,  angrily; 
but,  as  she  turns  and  faces  the  intruder,  her  tone 
is  changed  to  one  of  consternation. 

"  Lord  above  1 "  she  continues,  faintly.  "  How 
did  you  ever  find  me,  Joel  ?  " 

She  is  so  taken  by  surprise  that  she  has 
turned  quite  pale,  and  the  hand  she  olTors  him  is 
fluttering  like  a  bird. 

"Find  you  1 "  exclaims  the  new-comer  (who, 
it  may  be  as  well  at  once  to  state,  stands  in  the 
relationship  of  cousin  to  her),  "  I  would  have 
found  you,  Myra,  if  you  had  been  at  the  farthest 
end  of  the  whole  world." 

"  Aunt's  not  here,  is  she  ?  "  inquires  Myra, 
with  the  quick  fear  that  a  woman  in  her  equivo-' 
cal  position  has  of  encountering  the  reproaches 
of  one  of  her  own  sex  ;  "  you're  sure  you're  alone, 
Joel  ? " 

"  I'm  all  alone,  Myra.    Mother  has  enough  to 


v<^«lic 

I 


t 


fc-s 


i ;  she  reads  in 
;ain9t  her  ncw- 
ceps  out  of  tlie 
lie  presence:  ol" 

ind  full  of  Eud 
;c9  sbe  cnicrgoa 
saunters  in  the 

Eric  Keir  Las 
atended  for  the 
;ato  which  has 
by  acre,  and  its 
of  three  or  four 
stands  alone  in 
elds ;  and  it  is 
rain,  young,  and 
ler   than  a  two 
side  of  her,  that 
sense  of  a  deep 
lution  has  been 
last  hour  which, 
3,  it  will  not  easi- 
■t  with  Eric  Keir. 
rcn  to  think  of 
impossible  ways 
it,  her  breath  is 
[  of  iron,  and  he 
vulnerable  part. 
)wn  the  narrow 
irs  scarce  dried 
itle  in  the  com 
incnt   some  one 

but  she  is  quick 

nonces,  angrily ; 
trader,  her  tone 

D. 

faintly.    "How 

that  she  has 
she  offers  him  is 

xw-comcr  (who, 

c,  stands  in  the 

"  I  would   have 

at  the  farthest 

inquires  Myra, 
n  in  her  cquivo-' 
the  reproaches 
ire  you're  alone. 


JOEL  CRAY. 


11 


r  has  enough  to 


do  to  get  her  living,  without  coming  all  tlie  way 

iruMi   Leict'.stcr.-iliiie   to  look  after  yau.     But  I 

I  toulJu't  rest  till  I'd  seen  you  :  I  couldn't  believe 

H  what   I've  heard,  except   from   your   owsi   lips. 

You've  most  broke  my  heart,  Myra." 

lie  is  an  uncouth,  countrified -looking  fellow, 
[without  any  beauty,  except  sucli  as  Ia  conveyed 
■  by  Lis  love  and  his  sorrow  ;  but  as  he  stands 
there,  shcepislily  enough,  looking  down  upon  the 
hand  he  still  holds  between  his  own,  he  coni- 
nianils  all  the  respect  due  to  the  man  who  has 
done  nothing  for  which  he  need  blusli. 

His  earnestness  seems  to  touch  the  girl,  for 
Bhe  is  silent  and  hangs  down  her  liead. 

"  When  we  heard  that  you  had  left  the  situa- 
tion in  tlie  hotel  where  father  placed  you,  and 
without  a  word  of  warning,  we  cuukln't  credit  it. 
But  some  words  as  the  master  wrote  to  mother, 
made  us  tiiink  as  all  wasn't  right  Avith  you;  and 
when  weeks  aud  months  wont  by,  and  we  didn't 
hear  nothing,  I  began  to  four  it  was  true.  So  1 
fruvoled  up  from  homo,  little  by  little,  doing  a  job 
^orc,  aud  a  job  there,  till  I  got  to  Oxford,  and 
could  speak  with  the  master  myself;  and,  though 
te  couldn't  satisfy  me  as  to  your  whereabouts,  I 
fcuine  to  it  by  cnnstaut  inquiry,  and  reached  Fret- 
t>'iloy  last  night.  And  now,  Myra,  come  home 
Willi  me.  I  don't  want  to  make  no  words  about 
it :  I  don't  want  to  hear  nothing  of  what  you've 
been  doing — 't'.vould  only  cut  mo  up — but  .say 
JfOu'U  come  back  to  the  old  place  in  Leicester- 
Aire,  and  then  I  sha'n't  think  my  journey's  been 
took  in  vain." 

lie  looks  her  in  the  eyes  as  he  concludes,  and 
^e,  unable  to  stand  his  scrutiny,  drops  her  head 
j>on  his  rough  velveteen  .shoulder,  and  begins  to 

rv.  0 

"  0  Joel !  i'  I  could  only  tell  you." 
'•  Tell  me,  my  poor  lass !  where's  the  use  of 
Bur  telling  me ;  can't  I  read  the  signs  you  carry 
l)out  you  ?  What's  the  meaning  of  a  purple  silk 
Dwn  with  lace  fripperies  upon  your  back,  and  a 
air  of  gold  drops  in  your  ears,  if  it  don't  mean 
lame  ?  " 

"  No !   no !   not  that ! "  she   cries,   recoiling 

om  him. 

"  I  shall  think  less  of  you,  Myra,  if  you  call  it 

%  any  other  name.     But  the  old  home's  open  to 

rou,  my  dear,  all  the  same — open  to  receive  and 

aolter  you,  whenever  you  choose  to  come  back 

it ;  though  you  can't  never  bring  the  joy  to  it 

IV,  that  I  once  thought  you  would." 

The  old  home !  how  little  she  has  thought  of 

of  late  !  yet  she  can  see  it  in  her  mind's  eye, 

she  stands  pondering  his  words.    It  is  not  a 


particularly  hippy  home  to  her :  the  homes  of 
the  poor  seldom  are.  She  had  known  hunger, 
and  thirst,  and  cold,  and  occasionally  the  sound 
of  har-ih  words  within  its  liniitii.  yet  the  memory 
of  the  dull  life  she  led  there  seems  very  peace- 
ful now,  compared  to  the  excited  and  stormy 
scouos  through  which  she  has  passed  since  Icav. 
ing  it. 

The  old  home  I  It  was  not  a  jiaradise,  but  it 
was  more  like  home  to  the  low-i>orn  girl,  than 
daily  association  with  a  companion  who  is  as  far 
above  he:.'  in  birth  as  in  intellect,  and  has  grown 
but  too  conscious  of  the  gulf  that  lies  between 
then). 

Joel  Cray  takes  her  lit  of  musing  for  hesita- 
tion, and  recommences  his  persuasion. 

"  I  dare  say  he,  whoever  he  may  be — for  I 
know  there's  a  man  at  the  bottom  of  all  this, 
Myra  (curse  him  I),"  he  adds  pur  parenthisc — "  I 
dare  say  he  does  all  that  he  can  to  persuade  you 
that  he  loves  you  better  th.in  himself,  and  will  be 
constant  to  you  till  death,  but — " 

''  He  does  not,"  she  interrupts  eagerly,  in  de- 
fense of  the  absent. 

"What!"  replies  Joel,  lost  in  astonishment, 
"  he's  sick  of  you  already !  lie  steals  you  away 
from  an  honest  family  and  an  honest  employment 
to  make  a — '' 

"  Stop  !  "  cries  Myra,  in  a  voice  of  authority. 
"  What  am  I  to  stop  for  ?  " 
"  You  shall  not  call  me  by  that  name  :  it  is  a 
lie." 

"I  wish  to  God  you  could  prove  it,  Myra, 
what  are  you,  then — his  icife?  " 

"  Of  whom  are  you  t.ilking  ?  "  witli  passionate 
confusion.  "  IIow  do  you  know  that  there  is  any 
one  ?  What  right  have  you  to  come  and  bully 
me  in  this  manner  ?  " 

"  Myra  !  we  were  brought  up  together  from 
little  children ;  my  mother  was  like  your  mother, 
and  my  home  was  your  home;  and  long  before 
you  saw  this  chap,  you  knew  that  I  loved  you  and 
looked  to  wed  you  when  the  proper  tii.  e  came — 
that's  my  right !  And  now,  as  wo  stand  in  God's 
sight  together,  tell  me  the  truth.  Are  you  mar- 
ried to  the  man,  or  arc  you  not  5  " 

At  this  point-blank  question,  she  trembles, 
and  grows  red  and  white  by  turns,  shrinking  from 
the  stern  glance  he  fixes  on  her. 

"Joel!  don't  look  at  me  after  that  fashion, 
for  I  can't  bear  it !  0  Joel !  you  used  to  love  me. 
Take  me  back  to  aunt,  and  the  old  place,  and  the 
children,  for  there's  no  one  wants  me  here." 

"  My  poor  lass !  is  it  really  as  bad  as  that — 
only  three  months,  and  tired  of  you  already  f 


^. 


12 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


V 


I 


1 ., 

i1 


Well,  veil !  vou''l  bettor  liavc  taken  me,  perhaps, 
after  all — you've  made  a  sorry  bargain,  Myra." 

"  0  Joel  t  I  love  him — I  love  him  bcyon  1 
every  thing  in  tlie  world.  He  is  so  clever,  and 
80  handsome,  and  so  good  to  me.  liut  I  ain't  fit 
for  sueli  as  he  is  :  I  feel  it  at  every  turn.  I  can't 
talk,  nor  behave,  nor  look  as  he  would  wish  mo 
to  do,  and  " — in  a  lower  voice — "  he  is  ashamed 
of  me,  Joel." 

Poor  Joel  has  been  silently  writhing  under 
the  mention  of  his  rival's  attributes,  but  the  last 
clause  is  too  much  for  him. 

"  Ashamed  of  you  !  the  d — d  villain  !  he  ain't 
worthy  to  touch  you.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  had  my 
fingers  this  moment  at  his  wizen  !  " 

"  Hush,  Joel  I  don't  say  such  awful  things, 
but — but — "  with  a  choking  sob,  "  I'm  nothing 
but  a  worry  to  him  now ;  he  wishes  we  had  nev- 
er met :  he  wishes  I  ^.as  dead,  and  he  was  rid  of 
ne." 

"  Will  you  come  home  with  me,  or  will  you 
not  1 "  shouts  Joel,  whose  patience  is  thoroughly 
exhausted.  "  If  you  stand  there,  Myra,  a-telling 
me  any  more  of  his  insults,  I  swear  I'll  hunt  him 
down  like  a  dog,  and  set  fire  to  every  stick  and 
stone  that  he  possesses.  Ah  I  you  think,  perhaps, 
that  I  don't  know  his  name,  and  so  he's  safe  from 
me ;  but  its  ^Amilton — there's  for  you — and  if 
you  disappoint  me,  I'll  soon  be  upon  his  track." 

"  0  Joel !  don't  be  hard  on  mo :  you  can't 
tell  how  I  feel  the  parting  with  him.'' 

She  turns  her  streaming  eyes  upon  the  cot- 
tage, while  he,  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  her 
distress,  paces  up  and  down  uneasil}'. 

"Then  you  mean  to  come  back  with  me. 
Myra?" 

"  Yes — yes — to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  you'll  have  changed  your  mind." 

"  What  will  there  be  to  change  it  ?  "  she  an- 
swers, passionately.  "  IIow  can  any  thing  undo 
his  words  ?  Ho  says  I  have  been  the  death  of  all 
good  things  in  him ;  that  if  it  was  possible  he 
would  wipe  out  even  the  memory  of  me  with  his 
blood ;  with  his  blood,  Joel,  think  of  that ! " 

"Well,  them's  insults,  whatever  they  may 
mean,  that  you've  no  right  to  look  over,  Myra ; 
and  if  you  won't  settle  'em,  I  shall." 

"  You  would  not  harm  him,  Joel ! "  fearfully. 

"I'd  break  every  bone  in  his  body,  if  I'd  the 
chance  to,  and  grateful  for  it.  But  if  you'll  prom- 
ise to  give  him  up  without  any  more  to-do,  and 
come  back  home  with  me,  I'll  K  ive  him  to  Provi- 
dence. He'll  catch  it  in  the  next  world,  if  not  in 
this." 

"  I  have  promised — I  will  do  it — only  give  me 


one  more  night  in  the  place  where  I  have  been  oo 
happy." 

lie  is  not  very  willing  to  grant  her  this  indul- 
gcnce,  but  she  exacts  it  from  him,  so  that  he  is 
obliged  to  let  her  have  her  way,  and  pas-^cs  the  next 
twelve  hours  in  a  state  of  uninterrupted  fear,  les-t 
he  should  appear  to  interpose  his  authority,  or, 
after  a  night's  reflection,  she  should  play  hitn  false, 
and  decide  to  remain  wliere  she  is. 

But  Joel  Cray  need  not  have  been  afraid. 

Myra  spends  the  time  indeed  no  less  perplex- 
edly than  he  docs ;  but  those  who  knew  her  in- 
nate pride  and  self-will  would  have  had  no  diiri- 
culty  in  guessing  that  it  would  come  off  conquer- 
or at  last. 

"  He  would  give  me  up  a  thousand  times  over 
for  his/aZ/jcr,"  she  keeps  on  repeating,  when  she 
finds  her  strength  is  on  the  point  to  fail;  "he 
said  so,  and  he  means  it,  and  sooner  or  later 
it  would  be  my  fate.  And  I  will  not  stay  to  be 
given  up  :  I  will  go  before  he  lias  the  chance  to 
desert  me.  I  will  not  be  to'l  again  tliat  I  tar- 
nish his  honor,  and  that  we  had  better  both  be 
dead  than  I  live  to  disgrace  him. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  love  him  too  much  to 
be  able  to  boar  it.  Perhaps,  when  he  hears  that 
I  am  gone,  and  comes  to  miss  me  (I  am  sure  that 
he  will  miss  me),  he  may  be  sorry  for  the  cruel 
things  he  said,  and  travel  England  over  till  lie 
finds  me,  and  asks  me  to  come  back  to  him 
again." 

The  soft  gleam  which  her  dark  eyes  assume 
as  the  thought  strikes  her,  is  soon  chased  away 
by  the  old  sore  memory. 

"  But  he  will  never  come :  he  only  longs  to 
be  quit  of  me  that  he  may  walk  with  a  free  con- 
science tjirough  the  world,  and  I  am  the  stum- 
bling-block in  bis  way.  Oh !  he  shall  never  say  so 
again :  he  shall  ^now  what  it  is  to  be  free :  he 
shall  never  have  the  opportunity  to  say  such  bit- 
ter truths  to  me  again.' 

And  so,  with  the  morning  light,  the  impetu- 
ous, unreasoning  crea'nre,  without  leaving  sijin 
or  trace  behind  her  to  mark  which  way  she  goes, 
resigns  herself  into  the  hands  of  Joel  Cray,  anJ 
flies  from  Fretterley. 

When,  according  to  promise,  Eric  Keir  pays 
another  visit  to  the  game-keeper's  cottage,  llur  ■ 
is  only  old  Margaret  to  open  the  door  and  stare 
at  him  as  though  she  had  been  bewitched. 

"Where  is  your  mistress?  "he  says,  curtly:  I 
the  expression  of  old  women's  faces  not  possess- 
ing much  interest  for  him. 

"  Lor,  sir !  she's  gone." 


OLD  MARGARET'S  REPORT. 


13 


re  I  have  licen  do 

lilt  her  this  indul- 
liin,  BO  that  he  id 
id  pas.'^cs  the  next 
srruptcd  fear,  l(•^t 
his  authority,  or, 
iild  play  him  false, 
is. 

I  been  afraid. 
I  no  less  perplex- 
rlio  knew  her  in- 
avc  had  no  dilfi- 
comc  off  conqucr- 

Dusand  times  over 
leatinp,  when  fhu 
r>int  to  fuil;_  "he 
1  sooner  or  later 
ill  not  stay  to  be 
as  the  chance  to 
again  that  1  tar- 
d  better  both  be 
1. 

him  too  much  to 
hen  he  hears  that 
le  (I  am  sure  that 
Drry  for  the  cruel 
;land  over  till  he 
me  back   to  him 

lark  eyes  assume 
loon  chased  away 

he  only  longs  to 
with  a  free  con- 
I  am  the  stum- 
shall  never  say  fo 
to  be  free:  he 
;y  to  say  such  bit- 
light,  the  impetii- 
hout  leaving  sijrn 
ich  way  she  goes, 
)f  Joel   Cray,  and 


c,  Eric  Kcir  pay? 
cr's  cottage,  tlun;' 
le  door  and  staic  [ 
bewitched.  >; 

"  he  says,  curtly;  t . 
faces  not  possess-  ] 


"  Gone !  where— into  the  village  ?  " 
"  Oh,  deary  me  1  I  knows  nothing  about  it ;  she 
I  never  spoke  to  me.     IIow  could  I  tell  but  what 
I  bhe'd  left  by  your  orders  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?     Has  Mrs.  Ilainllton 
I  left  Fr-tterlcy  ?  " 

"  Yes,   sir  —  I  suppose   so.     I  haven't  seen 
;  nothing  of  her  since  yesterday  moruiiig." 

"  Impossible  ! — without  leaving  a  note  or  any 
cxiilanation  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  if  you'll  find  a  note  among 
■  ilior  things,  sir !  they're  just  as  she  left  'em ;  I 
Jiaven't  touched  nothing;  I  knows  my  place  bet- 
iter ;  and  I'd  rather  you'd  find  out  the  truth  for 
yourself,  though  I  has  my  suspizzions,  of  course, 
whiih  we're  all  liable  to,  rich  and  poor  alike. 
But  I  haven't  worried  neither,  kno.fing  there's 
no  call  to  fear  but  what  my  wages  will  bo  all 
right  with  an  honorable  gentleman  like  your- 
|felf." 

He  makes  no  citbrt  to  restrain  her  cackle,  but 
•asses  through  ♦'ae  door  she  has  thrown  open  in 
tilence,  and  enters  the  deserted  sitting-room.  He 
does  not  know  if  he  is  awake  or  asleep ;  he  feels 
fs  if  he  were  moving  in  a  dream. 

Gone !  Left  him !  without  the  intention  of 
returning !  It  is  impossible ;  she  must  mean  to 
■^oine  back  again ;  she  is  playing  a  foolish  trick, 
In  hopes  of  frightcnuig  him  into  compliance  with 
that  which  she  has  so  often  asked,  and  he  refused, 
tout  neither  in  bed  nor  sitting-room  can  Eric  Eeir 
mseover  the  least  indication  that  Myra's  absence 
^  to  be  a  temporary  one ;  nor  a  written  line  of 
ircatening  or  farewell.  On  the  contrary,  she 
us  taken  all  the  simplest  articles  of  her  attire 
ith  her,  and  left  behind,  strewed  on  the  floor  in 
roud  neglect,  the  richer  things  with  which  he 
kas  provided  her.  AVeary  and  utterly  at  a  loss 
i  account  for  this  freak  on  the  part  of  one  who 
kas  appeared  so  entirely  devoted  to  himself,  Eric 
Jetums  to  the  lower  room,  and  summons  old 
largarct  to  his  side. 

I  can  find  nothing  co  account  for  Mrs. 
lamilton's  departure.  What  do  you  mean  by 
jiaving  your  suspicions  V  "  he  inquires,  in  a  deter- 
lined  voice. 
"  Well,  sir — deary  me  1  don't  take  offense  at 
%hat  I  say ;  but  truth  is  truth,  and  your  lady 
didn't  leave  this  house  alone,  as  my  own  eyes  is 
jTitncss  to." 

His  face  flushes,  and  as  he  puts  the  next  ques- 
j  tion  he  shades  it  with  his  hand. 

"  Whom  did  she  leave  it  with,  then  ?    Speak 
I  out,  woman,  and  don't  keep  me  waiting  here  for- 
ever I " 


"  0  lor,  sir !  don't  take  on  so,  there's  a  dear 
gentleman.  I  can't  rightly  tell  you,  sir,  never 
having  seen  the  young  man  before ;  but  he  was 
hanging  about  here  the  evening  you  left,  and  talk- 
ing with  your  lady  in  the  field,  and  he  fetched 
away  her  box  with  his  own  'ands,  yesterday 
morning,  as  I  watched  'ira  from  the  kitchen- 
winder.  A  country-looking  young  man  he  was, 
but  not  ill-favored ;  and,  as  they  walked  off  to- 
gether, I  see  him  kiss  the  mistress's  cheek,  that  I 
did,  if  my  tongue  was  to  be  cut  out,  for  saying  so, 
the  very  next  minute." 

"  There — there !  that  will  do ;  go  to  your 
work,  and  hold  your  tongue,  if  such  a  thing  is 
possible  to  you.  You  will  remain  on  here,  and, 
when  I  have  decided  what  is  to  bo  done  with 
these  things,  I  will  let  you  know." 

And,  so  saying,  J]ric  Keir  strides  from  the 
house  again,  mounts  his  horse,  and  retakes  his 
way  to  Oxford. 

"  A  young  man,  country-looking  but  not  ill- 
favored  ;  some  one  of  the  friends  from  whom  ho 
has  alienated  her,  perhaps.  Certainly  a  person 
of  her  own  class,  and  to  whom  she  returns  in 
preference  to  himself. 

"  lIow  could  he  have  ever  been  such  a  fool  as 
to  suppose  that  a  woman  taken  from  her  station 
in  life,  accustomed  to,  and  probably  flattered  by, 
the  attentions  of  clodhoppers  and  tradesmen, 
could  appreciate  the  niceties  of  such  a  sacred 
thing  as  honor,  or  the  affection  of  an  elevated  and 
intellectual  mind  ?  " 

So  he  says,  in  his  first  frenzy  of  wrath  and 
jealousy  and  shame,  but  so  does  he  not  entirely 
believe.  The  old  woman's  gossip  has  left  a  mis- 
erable doubt  to  rankle  in  his  heart ;  but  has  not 
accomplished  the  death  of  his  trust  in  the  girl 
who  has  left  him,  and  whom,  though  he  has  ceased 
love,  he  f^.^ls  bound  to  search  after,  and  succor 
and  protect.  lie  makes  all  the  investigations 
that  are  possible  without  betraying  his  secret  to 
the  world;  but  private  inquiries  and  carefully- 
worded  newspaper  advertisements  prove  alike 
futile,  and  from  the  day  on  which  she  fled  from 
Frctterley  the  fate  of  Myra  to  Eric  Keir  is  wrapped 
in  dark  uncertainty. 


CHAPTER  II. 

This  abrupt  and  mysterious  termination  to  a 
love-dream  which  he  had  once  believed  to  be 
the  key-stone  of  his  life  has  a  groat  effect  upon 
the  bodily  and  mental  health  of  Eric  Eeir.  He 
becomes  morose,  absorbed,  and  melancholy ;  re- 


♦ 


.: 


14 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


linquiahcs  the  pursuits  of  which  lie  liaJ  been  most 
fond,  and  avoids  the  socifty  of  his  friundn.  His 
altered  behavior  excites  nuich  college-talk,  and 
aJl  hi8  former  companions,  save  one,  are  full  of 
conjecture  as  to  the  cause  of  it.  That  one  is 
Savillo  Mo.\on,  who  alone  believes  he  knows  the 
reason  of  the  chanf^o,  lie  thinks  that  Eric  Keir 
(notwithstanding  his  protestations  to  the  con- 
trary) has  really  been  smitten,  or  at  least  on  the 
high-road  to  being  smitten,  by  the  charms  of  one 
or  the  other  of  the  pretty  datightcrs  of  the  Vic- 
ar of  Fretterley ;  has  given  up  the  pursuit  at 
the  expostulation  of  his  friend,  and  is  suffering, 
l)y  a  very  natural  reaction,  for  his  voluntary  sac- 
rifice, Savillo  Moxon  knows  as  much  about  it  as 
any  of  the  others. 

After  a  month  of  silence  and  suspense,  dur- 
ing  which,  strange  to  say,  Eric  Keir,  in  all  his 
misery,  finds  a  sense  of  relief  at  not  being 
obliged  to  pay  those  secret  visits  to  Fretterly,  old 
Margaret  ia  dismissed,  the  cottage  given  up,  and 
its  contents  scattered  by  the  hammer,  but  the 
memory  of  the  days  he  has  spent  there  does  not 
pass  60  easily  from  the  young  man's  mind. 
Rather  it  takes  root  and  poisons  his  existence, 
like  an  unextracted  barb,  so  that  he  looks  five 
years  older  in  as  many  months,  and  loses  all  the 
effervescence  and  hilarity  of  youth. 

His  brother  and  his  friends  persuade  him, 
after  all,  to  join  their  walking-tour  in  Brittany, 
and,  when  it  is  accomplished.  Lord  Muiravcn  and 
the  Moxons  return  to  England  by  themselves, 
having  left  Eric  on  the  Continent. 

"  The  boy  has  grown  too  fast  and  studied  too 
hard,"  says  Lord  Norham,  in  answer  to  the  in- 
quiries of  anxious  relatives ;  "  and  a  little  re- 
laxation will  do  him  all  tlic  good  in  the  world.  I 
expect  great  things  of  Eric — great  things — but  I 
cannot  permit  his  health  to  be  sacrificed  to  my 
ambition."  In  consequence  oi  which,  the  Hon- 
orable Eric  Hamilton  Keir  is  lost  to  his  mother- 
country  for  two  eventful  years.  Could  he  but 
have  guessed  how  eventful ! 

At  the  expiration  of  that  period  we  meet  him 
again  at  a  private  ball  in  London. 

It  if  the  height  of  the  season ;  the  weather  is 
warm,  the  room  crowded,  and  every  one  not  oc- 
cupied in  dancing  attempts  to  find  a  refuge  on 
the  landing,  or  the  stairs. 

At  the  sides  of  the  open  door  lean  two  young 
men,  gazing  into  the  ballroom,  and  passing 
their  remarks  on  those  they  see  there. 

"  Who  is  the  girl  that  Keir's  dancing  with  ?  " 

"Keir!    Where  is  he?" 


"  Coming  down  the  left-hand  side  ;  the  girl 
in  black  and  gold." 

"  Why,  Miss  St.  John,  of  course  !  " 

"  And  wiiy  of  com-if  ?  Who  niay  Mi.-s  St. 
John  be  ?  "  ' 

"  My  dear  Ornio,  if  you're  so  lamentably  i;.'- 
norant,  pvay  speak  a  little  lower.  Not  to  kno  v 
Miss  .St.  John  argues  yourself  '.'iiknown." 

"  Indeed  !  Well,  slic's  uncommonly  han'!. 
some,  I  should  have  no  objection  to  number  her 
among  my  acquaintances." 

"  I  should  think  not ;  she's  the  belle  of  the 
season,  and  only  daughter  of  old  St.  John  tin; 
banker,  deceased." 

"  Got  any  money  ?  " 

"  Lots,  I  believe — anyway,  her  face  is  a  for- 
tune in  itself.  It  ought  to  command  a  coronet, 
as   faces  go  nowadays." 

"  And  Keir,  I  suppose,  is  first  in  the  field ': 
Well !  I  am  of  a  self-sacrificing  disposition,  anil 
wish  him  good  luck." 

"  He  would  not  thank  you  for  it :  he  is  sub- 
limely indifferent  to  every  thing  of  the  sort." 

"  It  does  not  look  like  it :  I  have  seen  thcin 
dancing  together  several  times  this  evening." 

"Ah  !  that  they  always  do  ;  and  I  believe  ho 
is  ".  ""'.istanl  visitor  at  the  house.  But  if  the  St, 
John  cherishes  any  fond  hopes  in  consequence,  1 
should  advise  her  to  relinquish  them.  Keir  'm 
not  a  marrying  man." 

"  It's  early  in  the  day  to  arrive  at  that  con- 
clusion." 

"  My  dear  felbw  !  ho  makes  no  secret  of  his 
opinions  —  nor  of  his  flirtations,  for  the  matter 
of  that.  If  he  has  one  affair  on  hand,  he  has  a 
dozen,  and,  should  Miss  St.  John  discard  him  to- 
morrow morning,  he  would  replace  her  in  the 
afternoon." 

"  You  are  not  giving  your  friend  a  very  en- 
viable character,"  remarks  Mr.  Orme,  who  is  :i 
young  man  of  a  moral  and  sententious  turn  of 
mind,  and  takes  every  thing  au  grand  sirkiix, 

"  Can't  possibly  give  him  what  he  hasn't  got, " 
replies  the  ether,  laughing;  "and  he  would  bo 
the  first  to  tell  you  so.  Keir's  an  excellent  fol- 
low with  men,  and  a  general  favorite ;  but  he  i- 
ccrtainly  heartless  where  women  are  concerned. 
or  callous.  I  hardly  know  which  to  call  it.  II'-' 
has  been  terribly  spoiled,  you  see,  both  at  hoii.' 
and  abroad ;  he  will  view  life  and  its  resposi-i 
bilities  with  clearer  eyes  ten  years  hence." 

There  is  a  general  crush  round  the  door-wav, 
and  the  conversation  of  the  young  men  has  been 
overheard  by  many,  but  to  one  listener  only  has 
it  proved  of  engrossing  interest.     *rhat  one  i= 


n^ftiK. 


.^'M:: 


• 


MRS.   ST.  JOnX  AND  HER  DAUGHTER. 


IS 


ind  side  ;    the  girl 


Vlio  uiav  Mi- 


<  St 


80  lamentably  i;:- 
vvr.    Not  to  kno '. 
■,'iikiiown." 
iiicoinmonly  liari'!- 
tion  to  nuiubcr  her 

e's  the  belle  of  tlio 
f  old   St.  Jollll  tin; 


,  her  face  is  a  fur- 
oinmaad  a  coronet, 

1  first  in  the  field '/ 
ing  disposition,  ami 

m  for  it :  ho  is  sub- 
ng  of  the  sort." 
:  I  have  seen  them 
IS  this  evcninjr." 
,0  ;  and  I  believe  ho 
)usc.  But  if  the  St, 
ps  in  consequence,  I 
lish  them.    Keir  is 

arrive  at  that  con- 

kc3  no  secret  of  his 
ions,  for  the  matter 

on  hand,  he  has  a 
bhn  discard  him  to- 

replace  her  in  the 


ur  friend  a  very  en- 
Mr.  Orrce,  who  in  s 
sententious  turn  of 
2U  grand  serieux. 
what  he  hasn't  got," 

"  and  he  would  be 
ir's  an  excellent  fcl- 

favorite ;  but  he  i; 
imen  are  concerned. 

hich  to  call  it.  H' 
u  see,  both  at  hem.. 
fe  and  its  responri- 
years  hence." 
round  the  door-wnv, 
young  men  has  been 
me  listener  only  lias 

rest.      That  one  i= 


Irs.  St  John,  the  widowed  mother  of  the  girl  so 
Ifrcely  »pokcn  of. 

Wedged  in  upon  the  landing,  and  forced  to 
kutca  to  the  discussion  against  her  will,  she  has 
Irunk  in  with  burning  cheeks  the  truths  so  likely 
affect  her  daughter's  happiness  ;  and,  as  soon 
its  she  finds  it  practicable,  she  creeps  to  a  cor- 
ner of  the  ballroom  whence  she  can  watch  the 
conduct  of  Irene  and  Mr.  Keir,  and  feverishly  de- 
termine what  course  of  action  she  is  boun;I,  in 
er  capacity  of  guardian,  to  pursue  respecting 
hem. 

Meanwhile  the  galop  has  ended,  and  Eric  Keir 
-leads  his  partner  into  an  adjoining  conservatory, 
Vrhieh  has  been  kept  dim  and  cool,  and  provided 
vith  couches  for  the  rest  and  refreshment  of  the 
dancers. 

There,  while  Irene  St.  John,  flushed  and  ex- 
cited, throws  herself  upon  a  sofa,  he  leans  against 
the  back  of  a  chair  oppo.«ite  and  steadfastly  re- 
gards her. 

"  I  am  afrnid  I  have  quite  tired  you.  Miss  St. 
John ;  that  last  galup  was  a  very  long  one." 
!►        Eric  Keir  is  greatly  altered   since  the  days 
•    vhen  he  paid  those  secret  visits  to  Fretterlcy. 
Travel  and  time,  and  something  more  powerful 
than  either,  have  traced  lines  across  bis  forehead 
and  made  his  face  sharper  than  it  should  be  at 
four-and-twenty.     But  ho   is  very  handsome — 
handsome  with  the  hereditary  beauty  of  the  fam. 
^    lly ;  the  large,  sleepy,  violet  eyes  and  dark  hair, 
;    and  well-cut,  noblo  features  which  the  Norharas 
have  possessed  for  centuries— of  which  the  pres- 
ent Lord  Norhara  is  so  proud ;  and  the  more  so 
bccauso   they  seem,  in   this   instance,  to  have 
skipped  over  the  heir  to  bestow  themselves  upon 

tis  younger  brother. 
And  this  handsome  hcid  is  not  set,  as  is  too 
flea  the  case,  on  an  indificrcnt  figure,  but  is  car- 
ried upright  and  statel'ly,  as  such  a  noblo  head 
'  ihould  be.    At  least  so  thinks  Irene  St.  John,  if 
0  other. 

"  I  am  not  so  tired  of  dancing,  as  of  attempt- 

ig  to  dance,"  she  says,  in  answer  to  his  remark. 

How  cool  and  refreshing  this  little  nook  seems, 

ier  the  crush  and  heat  of  the  ballroom !    Rest 

id  quiet  ore  worth  all  the  glare  and  tumult  of 

iciety,  if  one  could  believe  it." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  was  going  to  observe ; 

u  have  taken  the  sentence  out  of  my  mouth," 

ys  Eric  Keir.    "  The  pleasure  of  a  few  words 

ixchanged  with  you  alone,  outweighs  all  the  at- 

actions  of  an  evening's  dancing." 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  hear  you  say  so,"  mur- 
lUrs  Miss  St.  John,  with  downcast  eyes. 


"Why  not?  Is  the  Hentimont  too  high  to 
come  from  a  worldling's  lips  ?  " 

"  It  is  most  likely  to  proceed  from  the  lips  of 
those  who  have  encountered  something  to  distrust 
them  with  the  world,  I  jiopcd  thiit  your  life  liad 
been  all  brightness,  Mr.  Keir." 

"  It  is  too  good  of  you  even  to  have  hoped. 
But  why  should  I  be  exempt  from  that  of  which, 
I)y  your  own  ar;;umont,  you  must  hiive  had  expe- 
rience ?  " 

"Ah!  women  arc  more  liiihlo  to  sulTering,  or 
they  feel  it  more  acutely — don't  you  think  so? 
My  poor  father  !  it  seems  so  short  a  time  since  ho 
was  here.  Did  I  follow  my  own  inclinations,  I 
should  not  be  mixing  with  the  world,  even  now  ; 
and  I  often  wish  I  had  been  firmer  in  standing 
out  against  the  wishes  of  others." 

"  Don't  ,^ay  that,"  is  the  low-voiced  rejoinder; 
"  had  you  refused  to  enter  society,  we  might  not 
have  met !  and  I  was  just  beginning  to  be  pre- 
sumptuous enough  to  hope  that  our  friendship 
possessed  some  interest  for  you." 

"And  so  it  does,  Mr,  Keir;  pray  don't  thiuk 
otherwise,"  with  a  hot,  bright  blush ;  "  a  few  words 
of  common-sense  are  the  only  things  which  make 
such  a  scene  tolerable  to  me." 

"  Or  to  myself,"  he  answers,  as  he  takes  a  seat 
beside  her ;  "  the  quickness  with  which  we  think 
and  feel  together.  Miss  St.  John  ;  the  sympathy, 
in  fact,  which  appears  to  animate  us,  is  a  source 
of  unceasing  gratification  to  me." 

She  does  not  answer  him  ;  but  the  strains  of 
the  "  Blue  Danube  "  waltz  come  floating  in  from 
the  adjacent  ballroom,  and  mingle  with  his  words. 

"  I  suppose  the  world  considers  me  a  happy 
man,"  he  continues,  presently.  "I  dare  say  that 
even  my  own  people  think  the  same,  and  will  con- 
tinue to  do  so  to  the  end — what  then  ?  it  makes 
no  difierencc  to  me." 

How  quickly  a  woman's  sympathy  catches 
light  when  it  is  appealed  to  on  behalf  of  a  man's 
suffering !  She  seems  to  think  it  so  much  harder 
that  the  rougher  sex  ihould  encounter  trouble 
than  her  patient  self!  Irene's  eyes  are  full  of 
tender,  silent  questioning. 

"  And  you  arc  not,  then,  hajiny  ? "  they  in- 
quire. 

"  Can  you  ask  the  question  ?  "  his  reply. 

"  You  must  have  guessed  my  secret,"  his 
tongue  says ;  "  you  arc  not  an  ordinary  woman ; 
you  look  below  the  surface." 

"  I  confess  that  I  have  sometimes  thought — '• 

"Of  course  you  have,"  he  interrupts  her, 
eagerly.  "I  have  had  trouble  enough,  Qod 
knows,  and  it  will  end  only  with  my  life." 


i 


16 


"NO  INTENTIONS. 


m 


"0  Mr.  Krirl  yoii  arc  too  young  to  »:iy  that." 

"  I  iim  tuu  ul'l  to  think  utliurwiic,"  hu  rcjuuis, 
moodily;  "your  trouble  waa  not  of  your  own 
seeking,  Miss  St.  John — mine  is;  that  niukes  nil 
the  diirerenci'.'' 

"  It  nmitc.H  it  Iiarder  to  forgot,  pcrlmi).-',"  slio 
answcra,  "  but  not  iniitos.-ible.  And  you  liave  so 
much  to  nialiu  lil'o  plubsuut  to  you — so  many 
frlendu— " 

"Friends !  wliat  do  I  care  for  tlicni,  cxcc'iiting 
ODo?  0  Misd  St.  Jolml  if  you  will  not  tliinlv 
mo  too  bold  in  saying  so,  it  is  oidy  since  I  nut 
you  that  I  have  felt  as  if  I  really  had  a  friend. 
The  few  mouths  we  hare  known  each  other  seem 
like  years  in  retrospection,  though  tliey  have 
flown  like  days  in  making  your  acquaintance." 

"  Wo  have  seen  so  much  of  one  another  in  the 
time,"  she  murmurs,  softly. 

"Yesl  and  learned  more.  Sometimes  I  can 
scarcely  believe  but  that  I  have  known  you  all  my 
life.  To  feel  you  really  were  my  friend  would  be 
to  experience  the  greatest  pleasure  that  this  world 
still  holds  for  me." 

"  Why  should  you  not  feel  so?  " 

The  sweet  strains  of  the  "  Blue  Danube  "  are 
being  repeated  again  and  again,  but  above  the 
loudest  of  them  she  hears  the  fluttering  of  her 
own  heai-t  as  slie  puts  the  question. 

"  May  I  ?  "  laying  his  hand  upon  the  one  which 
licij  upon  her  lap :  "  is  it  possible  that  you  can  take 
suSScient  interest  m  such  an  insignificant  person 
aa  myself  as  to  promise  to  befriend  him  ?  Do  you 
know  all  that  is  implicated  in  that  promise — the 
long  account  of  follies  and  shortcomings  you  will 
have  to  listen  to,  the  many  occasions  on  which  you 
will  be  asked  for  counsel  or  advice,  the  numerous 
times  that  you  will  feel  utterly  tired  of  or  impa- 
tient with  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,  Mr.  Keir." 

"  Why  do  you  call  rae  Mr.  Keir  ?  Can  we  be 
real  friends  while  we  address  each  other  so  for- 
mally ?  Surely  you  arc  above  all  such  prudery, 
or  I  am  much  mistaken  in  your  character." 

"  I  am  not  a  prude,  or  I  think  so ;  yet  the 
name  by  which  I  call  you  can  make  no  ditferencc 
in  my  friendship." 

"  But  cannot  you  guess  that  I  am  longing  to 
hare  the  right  to  speak  to  you  familiarly  ?  Irene 
— it  fits  you  perfectly.  I  never  knew  an  Irene 
in  my  life  before,  yet  I  could  not  fancy  you  by  any 
other  name,  for  I  learned  to  love  its  sound  long 
before  I  had  the  hardihood  to  hope  that  its  pos- 
sessor would  admit  me  to  her  intimacy.  I  shall 
be  very  jealous  of  our  friendship,  Irene." 

"  But  why  should  you  be  jealous  ?  "  she  de- 


mands, in  a  low  voice,  ller  Fpenking  cyca  are 
cast  uiHin  the  gro\ind.  He  can  only  see  the  long, 
dark  lashes  that  lie  upon  her  cheeks,  and  the 
golden  glory  of  her  head,  while  the  sweet,  soft 
notes  of  tlie  nmsic  still  steal  in  to  fill  up  the  broken 
pauses  of  the  conversation. 

"Because  it  is  a  sacred  bond  between  us 
which  no  third  person  must  intrude  upon  ;  and  if 
it  is  a  secret,  so  much  the  better ;  it  will  be  so 
sweet  to  feel  that  we  have  any  thing  in  common. 
But  if  you  admit  another  to  your  friendship,  Irene 
— if  I  hear  any  man  daring  to  call  you  by  your 
Christian  name,  if  I  sec  that  you  have  other  con- 
fidants whom  you  trust  as  much  or  more  than 
myself,  I — 1" —  waxing  fierce  over  the  supposition 
— "  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do !  " 
His  violence  amuses  her. 
"You  need  not  be  afraid — indeed,  you. need 
not ;  no  one  of  my  acquaintance  would  presume 
to  act  in  the  manner  you  describe." 
"  Then  I  am  the  first,  Irene  ?  " 
"  Quite  the  first." 

"  So  much  the  happier  for  me  I    But  I  wonder 
— I  wonder — " 
"What?" 

"  Whether  you  can  bo  content  with  such  a 
friendship  as  I  ofifer  you ;  whether  it  will  be  suffi- 
cient for  your  happiness." 

"  How  tziffcante  you  must  consider  me  1 " 
"  Not  so ;  it  is  I  that  deserve  the  name.  Yet 
if — if,  when  wc  have  grown  necessary  to  each 
other— or,  rather,  when  you  have  grown  necessary 
to  me — you  should  see  some  one  whom  you  pre- 
fer— some  one  more  attractive — moro  desirable 
than  myself,  and  desert  mo  in  consequence,  marry 
him,  in  fact,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Slic  is  about  indignantly  to  disclaim  the  possi. 
bility  of  such  a  thing,  when  she  is  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  her  mother. 

"Irene!  what  are  you  thinking  of ?  Captain 
Clevedon  has  been  looking  for  you  the  last  half- 
hour.  You  know  you  were  engaged  to  him  for 
this  waltz." 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  St.  John,  usually  so  sweet 
and  low,  especially  when  she  is  speaking  to  her 
daughter,  has  become  too  highly  pitched  in  her 
anxiety,  and  sounds  discordant.  As  she  hears  it, 
Irene,  blushing  all  over,  rises  quickly  fromhfer  seat. 
"Have  I  been  here  long,  mother?  I  have 
been  talking,  and  did  not  think  of  it." 

"  Then  you  should  think  of  it,"  retorts  Mrs. 
St.  John ;  "or  Mr.  Keir" — with  a  dart  of  indig- 
nation in  his  direction — "  should  think  of  it  for 
you.  It  is  not  customary  with  you  to  oflend  your 
partners,  Irene." 


i 


MR.  KEIR'S  VISIT. 


11 


LftkliiR  fycB  arc 
Illy  Kue  tlic  long, 
uht'L'kM,  and  the 
thu  tiwci't,  soft 
fillupthubiokcn 

ond  between  us 
idc  upon  ;  and  if 
2r ;  it  will  be  so 
ling  in  common, 
fiicndtfbip,  Irene 
;all  you  by  your 
u  bavo  otbcr  con- 
ib  or  more  than 
er  tlie  supposition 
do!" 

■indeed,  you -need 
!C  would  presume 
be." 
?" 

lO  I    But  I  wonder 


stent  witb  sucb  a 
lier  it  will  be  Bufli- 

Usidcr  mc  1 " 


tbo  name.  Yet 
icccssary  to  each 
grown  necessary 
wbom  you  pre- 
I — more  desirable 
onscquenco,  marry 

disclaim  tbe  possi- 
is  interrupted  by 

iing  of?  Captain 
you  tbe  last  half- 
igaged  to  bim  for 

usually  60  sweet 
speaking  to  bcr 
lily  pitcbcd  in  her 

As  she  hears  it, 
icklyfromhferseat, 
mother?  I  have 
of  it." 

it,"  retorts  Mrs. 
th  a  dart  of  indig- 
Id  think  of  it  for 
you  to  offend  your 


f 


"Iij  Captain  Clcvcdon  oUV'iidoJ  ?  I  am  so 
loiTV  !  Take  me  to  liiin,  mollur,  and  I  will  make 
Ihe  aincntU  /lonorahlc." 

foi      "  I  don't  tliink  you  will  liavc  liie  opportunity. 

^  believe  ho  1ms  gone  home,  whew,  indeed,  it  is 
kigh  time  wo  went  also.     CoMie,  Irene !  " 

•*  I  am  ready,  mother!  Mr.  Keir  olferg  you 
ht<  arm.  No!  "—as  Erie  Keir  extends  the  other 
tar  her  benellt — "  tuko  eare  of  mamma,  and  I  w  ill 
fbliow  ;  tliank  you  !  " 

J  So  they  pass  through  tho  ballroom  and  de- 
fcond  the  staircase,  Mrs.  St.  Jolm  in  dignified  si- 
lence, and  tlie  young  people  with  some  amount  of 
^epidalion.  Yet,  as  ho  puts  Irene  into  the  car- 
llago,  Erie  Keir  summons  up  sullieient  courage  to 

•■y- 

"  Shall  I  find  you  at  homo  to-morrow  after- 
noon. Miss  St.  John  ?  " 

Slie  is  about  to  answer  timidly  that  she  is 
n^t  sure,  when  she  is  again  interrupted  by  her 
B|other. 

"  Yes,  we  shall  bo  at  home,  and  glad  to  sec 
|0u,  Mr.  Keir ; "  at  which  uncspeeted  rejoinder, 
J|r.  Keir  expresses  his  grateful  thanks,  and  Irene, 
dasping  Mrs.  St.  John's  hand  between  both  her 
0trn,  lies  back  upon  the  cushions,  and  indulges  in 
a  rose-colored  dream  of  coming  happiness. 

At  an  early  hour  on  tho  following  afternoon, 
9ric  Kcir's  horse  stands  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  St. 
Jinn's  houso  in  lirook  Street.  lie  enters  hur- 
ritdly,  with  a  bright  look  of  expectation  on  his 
OQlintenance,  and,  without  ceremony,  turns  into  a 
a^ng-room  on  the  ground-floor. 
4^'  Tho  servant  who  admitted  hi'u  had  scarcely 
e  to  close  the  hall-door  again,  before  tho  vis- 
had  vanished  from  his  ^fiew,  and  left  him 
nding  there,  with  tho  message  that  was  evi- 
lly fluttering  on  his  lips,  still  cndelivered. 
t  it  is  Irene's  sitting-room,  and  Eriis  Keir  is 
ti^t  disappointed  in  his  hope  of  finding  her  in  it — 
ipd  alone. 

"  What  will  you  say  to  me  for  so  abnipt  an 
ranee  ?  "  he  exclaims,  as  she  rises  to  welcome 
"  Does  it  come  within  tho  privileges  of  a 
nd  to  introduce  himself,  or  must  I  wait,  like 
other  man,  uutil  your  flunky  formally  an- 
Iftunces  mc  ?    0  Irene !  I  have  scarcely  slept  a 
llink  all  night." 

"  What  a  lamentable  confession ! "  she  an- 

ers,  gayly.   "  If  this  is  the  effects  of  too  much 

ncing,  I  must  begin  to  assert  my  prerogative 

chief  counselor,  and  order  you  to  be  more  dis- 

eet  in  future." 

"  Of  too  much  danciTiff  t "  indignantly ;  "  you 


^-4i 


know,  witliout  my  telling  you,  if  my  rcstlessncsg 
was  due  to  that.     0  Irene!  I  feel  bo  happy!  " 

"  Antl  la.st  night  you  felt  so  miserable." 

A  cloud  passes  over  the  brightness  of  his  face. 

"  I  did.  I  felt  wretched  in  looking  back  upon 
my  past  life:  the  remembrance  of  thu  trouble  it 
has  caused  me,  and  the  follies  to  which  it  has 
been  witness,  unnerves  mo.  And  my  happiness 
to-day  (if  it  can  be  culled  such),  my  light-hearted- 
ncss,  ratlier,  proceeds  only  from  tho  knowledge 
that  you  promised  to  help  me  to  forget  it." 

She  has  reseated  herself  by  this  time,  and  be 
takes  a  chair  beside  her. 

"  As  far  as  it  lies  in  my  nower,"  she  answers ; 
"  but  is  it  always  necessary  to  foiyel  in  order  to 
be  happy    " 

"  In  my  case  it  is  so :  there  is  nothing  left  for 
me  but  forgetfulness — and  your  affection." 

"  Was  it  a  very  great  trouble,  tlien  ? "  sho 
says,  softly, 

"  So  great,  that  it  has  destroyed  all  tho  pleas- 
ure of  my  youth,  and  threatens  to  do  tho  same 
by  tho  comfort  of  my  age." 

"  And  a  woman  was  the  cause  of  it,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  Is  not  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  all  our  troub- 
les ?  Women  are  the  ulterior  causes  of  all  pain 
and  pleasure  in  this  world — at  least,  for  us.  You 
have  not  lived  nineteen  years  in  it  without  dis- 
covering that,  Irene  ?  " 

"  No ! " 

"  And  so  I  look  to  a  woman  to  cure  mc  of  tho 
wound  that  a  woman's  hand  inflicted  ;  to  restore 
to  me,  as  far  as  possible,  through  the  treasure  of 
her  friendship  and  hef  sympathy,  tho  happiness 
which,  except  for  my  own  mad  folly,  I  might 
have  aspired  to — " 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  Mrs.  St.  John  is  in  the 
library,  and  will  be  glad  to  speak  to  you  as  soon 
as  you  can  make  it  convenient  to  see  her." 

"  Say  I  will  come  at  once." 

On  the  entrance  of  the  servant  they  have 
sprung  apart  as  guiltily  as  though  they  had  been 
lovers,  instead  of  only  friends,  and,  as  be  disap- 
pears again,  they  look  at  one  another  consciously 
and  laugh, 

"What  a  mysterious  message!"  exclaims 
Irene;  "is  this  leap-year?  Can  mamma  have 
any  designs  on  you  ?  " 

"  In  the  shape  of  commissions — what  ladies 
have  not  ?  I  am  a  perfect  martyr  to  the  cause. 
Whether  owing  to  the  respectability  of  my  con- 
nections, or  myself,  I  cannot  say;  but  the  num- 
ber of  notes  I  am  asked  to  deliver,  and  Berlin 
wools  to  match,  is  perfectly  incredible.    But  is 


i 


!'! 


18 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


f:^ii 


k 


tlii.1  (Icfir  iiildPvlcw  rnded?  flinll  I  not  find  yon 
here  on  my  return  ?  " 

"  Pfrlmps  you  itifiy ;  but  pcrlmpf«,  aluo,  my 
mother  will  l)o  with  you,  So  you  liud  hctter 
consider  it  lit  nil  end,  Ifj^t  you  Hhould  be  didiip- 
pointed." 

"  If  it  is  nt  an  end,  you  must  bid  mo  fare- 
well." 

"Farewell,"  f>ho  echoes,  sndlingly,  an  she  ex- 
tends her  hand. 

"  Is  tliat  the  best  way  you  know  how  to  do 
it?"  ho  demands,  ns  ho  retains  her  hand  be- 
tween his  own.  "  What  a  thorough  EnRlish- 
woman  you  are,  Irene ;  you  would  not  relinquish 
one  of  the  cold  forms  of  society,  even  where 
youv  feelings  arc  most  interested.  Custom  first, 
and  friendnhip  afterward.  Ah,  you  do  not  rc- 
s^ard  our  compact  In  the  sacred  light  that  I  do !  " 

lie  has  drawn  her  closer  to  him  as  he  speaks, 
and  their  faces  are  nearly  on  a  level 

"  0  Eric !  how  little  you  know  me !  " 

The  liquid  eyes  upraised  to  his,  the  parted 
lips,  the  trembling  hand — which  he  still  holds — 
iippoal  to  him  until  he  loses  sight  of  self  and  the 
bitter  consequences  of  indulgence,  and  remem- 
bers only  that  they  arc  man  and  woman,  and 
they  stand  alone. 

"Darling!"  he  whispers,  as  he  bends  down 
and  kisses  her. 

By  the  crimson  flush  that  mounts  to  her  fore- 
head, and  the  abrupt  manner  in  which  she  disen- 
gages herself  from  him  and  turns  away,  so  that 
he  cannot  see  her  face,  he  fears  that  he  has  seri- 
ously offended  her. 

"Forgive  mo!  I  know  that  it  was  wrong, 
but  I  could  not  help  it.  Irene,  say  that  you  are 
not  angry ! " 

"  Oh,  pray  go  to  mamma !  she  will  think  it  so 
strange — she  has  been  waiting  for  you  all  this 
time." 

"  I  cannot  go  until  you  have  said  that  }  ou 
forgive  me." 

"  I  do  forgive  you  then ;  but — but — it  must 
never  be  again" 

"  Is  that  your  heart  speaking  to  mine,  Irene  ? 
Well,  I  will  not  press  you  for  an  anp^er  now  ; 
but  grant  me  one  favor— one  token  that  you  arc 
not  really  angry  with  me:  be  here  when  I  re- 
turn." 

And  with  these  words  he  leaves  her. 

He  finds  Mrs.  St.  John  restlessly  pacing  up 
and  down  the  library,  and  appearing  even  more 
nervous  than  usual. 

She  is  a  frail,  timid-looking  woman,  the  very 
opposite  of  her  high-spirited  daughter ;  and,  as 


nho  turns  at  \\\%  approach,  her  very  lips  art 
trembling. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  St.  John  ?  I  bellcvi; 
you  wish  to  ^peak  to  me.  A  cotnird^'sion,  ol 
course.  Well,  I  am  quite  at  your  service,  from 
barley-8\tgnr  up  to  bank-notes,  What  a  lovely 
morning  we  have  had !  I  hope  you  are  not  much 
fatigued  after  last  night's  di-ssipation." 

Ilis  frank  and  unrestrained  address  makes  the 
task  which  she  has  set  herself  more  difllcult;  but 
Kho  takes  u  chair,  and  waves  him  to  another, 
while  she  is  vainly  trying  to  find  words  In  which 
to  open  the  conversation  naturally. 

"  I  am  quite  well,  thank  you,  Mr,  Ktir.  I'lay 
be  seated.  Yes,  I  nsked  to  speak  to  you ;  it  is 
rather  a  delicate  business,  an<l,  had  I  not  prciit 
faith  in  you,  it  would  be  a  very  painful  one ;  but 
— arc  you  sure  that  you  are  comfortable  ?  " 

"Quite  so,  thank  you,  Mrs.  St.  John,"  he  an- 
swers, puzzled  to  imagine  what  possible  connec- 
tion his  present  comfort  can  have  with  the  sub- 
ject she  is  about  to  introduce. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.  It  is  much  more  satisfac- 
tory to  enter  on  a  discussion  when  both  parties 
arc  perfectly  at  their  ease.  I  asked  to  see  you, 
Mr.  Kclr,  because — I  suppose  you  know  that  I 
am  the  sole  guardian  of  my  daughter?  " 

"  I  believe  I  have  heard  Miss  St.  John  men- 
tion the  fact." 

"  Yes,  her  poor  father  wished  it,  and,  thou};li 
I  am  very  unfit  for  such  a  position,  I  knew  he 
must  be  the  best  judge ;  and  so — but,  of  course, 
it  leaves  me  without  counselors.  Irene  has  no 
near  relation  but  myself,  and  I  have  no  male 
friends  in  England  to  whom  I  can  apply  for  ad- 
vice in  any  matters  of  difficulty.'' 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  use,"  he  interrupt.-, 
eagerly,  "or  could  procure  you  the  information 
you  require,  Mrs.  St.  John,  you  must  know  that 
it  would  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  do  so.'' 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Kcir — yes,  yoii 
can  help  me — I  am  coming  to  that  presently. 
But  being,  as  I  said  before,  the  sole  guardian  of 
Irene's  interests,  you  must  perceive  that  it  is  my 
duty  to  be  very  careful  of  her — that  I  cannot  be 
too  careful — " 

"  Who  could  doubt  it  ?  "  he  answers,  warmly. 

"  And  you  are  very  often  in  her  company ; 
you  have  been  here  a  great  deal  lately,  Mr.  Keir 
— you  arc  at  our  house  almost  every  day." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  I  say  that  you  are  very  intimate  with  Irene 
—  rather  too  intimate,  I  think  ;  though,  of 
course,  we  have  always  been  pleased  to  sec  you ; 
but  the  world  will  talk,  and    young  people's 


[N' 


.1) 


# 


iVX 


% 


A   PAINFUL   INTKUVIKW. 


10 


iir  very   llpii   ar». 

John?  I  bi'UevL' 
\  coriiiiil.-'rtion,  ol 
your  Kcrvii-e,  fnm 
i,  Wliiit  a  lovtly  . 
you  nri"  not  much 
patioM." 

mldross  ninkfs  the 
more  dllllcuU ;  but 
3  liim  to  nnother, 
iid  wonls  iu  whu'h 
■ally. 

u,  Mr.  Kiir.  Piftv 
peak  to  you  ;  it  is 
(1,  had  I  not  great 
•y  painful  one ;  but 
Binfortnblo  ?  " 
!.  St.  John,"  he  nii- 
nt  posisibli)  connec- 
have  with  the  sul)- 

lueh  more  patlsfiu- 
when  both  parties 
I  asked  to  see  you, 
D  you  know  that  I 
aughter?" 
Miss  St.  John  men- 

hcd  it,  and,  tlioupli 
position,  I  knew  he 
so— but,  of  course, 
or.').  Irene  has  no 
id  I  have  no  male 
I  can  apply  for  ad- 
ty." 

se,"  ho  interrupt,-, 
ou  the  information 
i\i  must  know  that 

pleasure  to  do  bo.'' 
Mr.  Kcir— yes,  you 

to  that  presently. 

10  sole  guardian  of 

rceive  that  it  is  my 
that  I  cannot  be 

le  answers,  warmly. 

in  her  company; 
cal  lately,  Mr.  Keir 

every  day." 

ntimate  with  Irene 

hink  ;     though,  of 

ileased  to  see  you; 

d   young  people's 


n  iMii'.*  .S')on  gi't  ooiinceteJ ;  and  so  1  con^ldor  it 
my  duty  to  ascertain "  — hero  Mrs.  St.  John 
coii;;li-i  twici',  and  .-wallows  some  f.'arful  nl(."taelc 
iu  liiT  ihroat— "to  ask  yon,  in  >liort,  i'7«i<  <nr 
i/'iuf  intenthms  rctjyctiwj  lur i  " 

Th(>  niuiiler  is  out,  and  [loor  Mrs.  St.  .lohn 
links  back  in  her  ehair,  pale  and  exhausted,  as 
thou;{li  her  own  fate  depended  on  his  answer. 

"  Intentions  !  my  int'ntions  I  "  cilis  Kile 
Xeif,  starling  from  his  seat. 
^  The  tone  of  surprise  and  iiiereilulity  in  whieh 
Tie  utti'is  the  words  seems  to  put  new  courage 
Into  his  li.stener;  it  arouses  her  maternal  fears, 
*%\\\  with  her  fears  her  Indignation,  and  she  an- 
iwei'S,  (luii'kly : 

"  You  cannot  pretend  to  misunderstand  my 
meaning,  Mr.  Kfir;  yoiui,'  as  you  are,  you  arc 
(Oo  much  a  man  of  the  world  for  that,  and  must 
know  tliat  if  you  are  so  constantly  seen  in  the 
OOmpany  of  a  young  laily,  people  will  begin  to 
tofiuire  if  you  arc  engaged  to  be  married  to  her 
^^-fir  not." 

"I— I— know  that  I  have  trespassed  very 
fcueh  upon  your  hospitality,"  ho  commences, 
, jitainmering,  "  and  taken  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
"joining  here,  hut  I  have  never  addressed  Miss 

!t.  John  excel  it  in  the  character  of  a  friend,  and 
suppo.^ed  th:it  you  entirely  understood  the  foot- 
ig  on  whieh  I  visited  her." 

"  And  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  exclaims  the 
poor  mother,  who  is  shaking  from  head  to  foot 
irtth  nervous  excitement  —  "you  intend  mo  to 
understand,  Mr.  Keir,  that  all  your  attentions 
llkve  meant  nothing,  and  that  my  daughter  is  no 
ore  to  you  than  any  other  girl  ?  " 

The  whole  truth  (lashes  ou  him  now  ;  he  sees 
be  fraud  of  which  he  has  been  guilty,  both  to 
Is  own  heart  and  to  hers ;  ho  knoll's  that  ho 
Ives  Irene  St.  John  as  his  soul ;  and  yet  he  is 
breed  to  stammer  on  : 

"  I  never  said  that,  Mrs.  St.  John.     I  hold 

»ur  daughter  too  highly — much  too  higldy,  in 

jiy  admiration  and — and — esteem,  and  value  her 

riendship  too  much,  to  bo  guilty  of  so  false  a 

entimcnt.     But,  as   to  marriage:  deeply  as  I 

|»ay — as  I  do  regret  the  necessity  for  saying  so, 

must  tell  you  that  it  is  not  in  my  power,  at 

kresent,  to  marry  any  one !  " 

^     "  Not  in  your  power !  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

'''$.      "I  mean  that,  being  but  a  younger  son,  I  am 

^ot,  unfortunately,  in  a  position  to  take  such  a 

responsibility  upon  myself  so  early.     If  you  knew 

ay  circumstances,  Mrs.  St.  John,  you  would  be 

Mie  first  person  to  refuse  your  daughter's  hand  to 

DC." 


"  What !  as  tlie  younger  kuu  of  the  Karl  of 
N'orhamy  Mr.  Kclr,  you  are  having  rrcour-^c  to 
.1  ini-<  Table  subti.'ifuge ;  you  havf  lieen  tiitliiig 
Willi  my  child — yi>u  wouM  not  have  dared  to 
make  hO  paltry  an  excuse  to  Irene's  father." 

"  O  Mrs,  St.  John  !  you  do  me  wi(Uig.  I 
sliould  have  spoken  just  the  sani(!  (I  could  have 
spoken  in  no  other  way)  even  to  your  husban  I, 
Yet  h.id  I  pleaded  a  di^inelination  for  marriage, 
you  would  have  been  no  belter  pleased." 

"  I  have  been  fooli-"!!,"  e\claims  Mrs.  St. 
John,  trying  hard  to  keep  liaek  the  tears  which 
she  would  consider  it  beneath  her  dignity  to 
shed;  "I  have  been  Idind  to  allow  your  iiiiiuiaey 
to  go  on  BO  long — but  I  could  not  believe  you 
would  act  so  imworthy  a  part.     My  poor  Irene !  " 

"  (iood  '!od  !  Mrs.  St.  John  "—with  terrible 
emphasis — "you  do  not  mean  to  tell  me  that 
Irene  shares  your  suspicions — that  she  has  learned 
to  regard  me  with  ony  feeling  wanner  than  the 
frieiulship  we  have  pleilged  each  other  'i  " 

"What  right  have  you  to  ask,  sir?  What 
right  have  yoti  to  call  he  '  liy  her  Christian  name  ? 
I  have  not  been  accustomed  to  hear  my  daughter 
spoken  of  so  familiarly  by  the  gentlemen  of  her 
nerpiaintanee." 

"  O  Mrs.  St.  John  I  don't  be  hard  ujion  me. 
Helicve  me  when  I  say  that  in  seeking  the  friend- 
ship of  .Mi.ss  St.  John  I  had  no  intention  beyond 
that  of  deriving  great  plea.sure  and  prolit  from 
our  intercourse.  I  never  dreamed  that  my  actions 
would  be  misconstrued  citlier  Ity  the  world  or 
yourself.  I  have  never  breathed  a  word  to  her 
concerning  love  or  marriage — I  conH  not  have 
done  it,  knowing  how  impossible  it  is  lor  me  to 
redeem  such  a  pledge,  at  present.'' 

"  I  hear  your  words,  Mr.  Keir,  but  I  do  not  un- 
derstand them.  I  only  feel  that  you  have  been 
acting  a  very  thoughtless,  if  not  a  di.-honorable 
part,  and  that  it  becomes  my  duty  to  see  an  im- 
mediate stop  put  to  it.  And,  therefore,  from  the 
moment  you  quit  this  room,  you  must  consider 
that  otir  intimacy  is  at  an  end." 

At  this  intimation  Eric  Keir  becomes  visibly 
agitated. 

"  At  an  end !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  am 
to  see  her  no  more — that  my  visits  here  ore  to 
cease  once  and  forever  ?  " 

"  Of  course  they  are !  Would  you  go  on  de- 
ceiving my  poor  girl,  only  to  break  her  heart  at  the 
last?"  cries  Mrs.  St.  John,  thrown  off  her  guard 
by  the  vehemence  of  his  manner.  "  You  little 
guess  my  love  for  her,  Mr.  Keir,  if  you  think  I 
would  permit  the  happiness  of  her  life  to  be 
wrecked  in  this  manner." 


^i 


m 


In'' : 

111 


m 


20 


NO  INTENTIONS," 


Tho  tliiiiil,  Hhi Inking;  woinnti,  wlio  liiiidly 
rpoiikH  iihi)vc  II  ^vlli.^|lt'r  in  Hodoty,  bct'ouicH  (jultu 
Hiuiiil  and  truglo  in  (Jcft'nm'  of  her  chill.  Hliu  rt-- 
inln(U  one  of  a  dovcoyod,  Iniioci'iit  uwi',  udvoncinK 
to  lliu  front  of  tliu  (lock  to  .sliuku  itM  lioridci^H  liciid 
and  Htiinip  itn  inipolvnt  k'nl  bi'CuuMo  nonic  pax.sinf; 
siianf^ir  Ims  diucd  to  uaitt  a  gluiico  In  tlio  diruu* 
tion  of  itM  litiiili. 

"  Then  Bho  loves  hip,  and  you  know  It,"  ex- 
cluimn  the  young  niiin,  hU  eyes  rouaed  fi'oni 
their  iiBual  lunKUor  liy  tho  excitement  of  tho  sus- 
picion ;  "  Mrs.  St,  John,  tell  nio  tho  truth ;  docH 
Irene  lovo  mo  ?  " 

"  Do  you  intend  to  marry  her  ?  "  demandn 
tho  mother,  fixedly.  Ilia  eyes  droop ;  silence  Ih 
hid  only  answer. 

"O  Mr.  Keir!  I  could  hardly  h.ivo  believed 
it  of  you." 

"  I  ouj^ht  not  to  have  jiut  the  question.  I 
have  only  tortured  you  and  myself.  IJut  if  jou 
have  any  pity  loft  for  mo,  try  to  pity  tho  necessi- 
ty which  forbids  my  answering  you." 

"I  think  that  our  interview  should  end  hero, 
Mr.  Keir.  No  good  can  bo  gained  by  my  detain- 
ing you  longer,  and  a  further  discussion  of  this 
very  painful  subject  is  only  likely  to  lead  to  fur- 
ther estrangement.  I  must  beg  you,  therefore, 
to  leave  this  house,  and  without  seeing  my  daugh- 
ter again." 

"  But  who  then  will  tell  her  of  tho  proposed 
alteration  in  our  intercourse  ?  " 

"  I  take  that  upon  myself,  and  you  may  rest 
assured  that  Irene  will  be  quite  satisfied  to  abide 
by  my  decision.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Keir,  if  you 
have  any  gentlemanly  feeling  left,  you  will  quit 
London,  or  take  means  to  prevent  our  mooting 
you  again." 

"  Is  it  to  be  a  total  separation,  then,  between 
us  ?  Must  I  have  not/iiii(/,  because  I  cannot  take 
all  ? " 

"  I  have  already  given  you  my  opinion.  Do 
nqt  compel  mo  to  repeat  it  in  stronger  terms." 

Her  voice  and  manner  have  become  so  cold 
that  they  arouse  his  pride. 

"  There  is  nothing,  then,  left  for  mo  to  do  but 
to  bow  to  your  decision.  Mrs.  St.  John,  I  wish 
you  a  very  good-morning." 

He  ia  going  then,  but  his  heartstrings  pull 
him  backward. 

"  Oh  I  make  the  best  of  it  to  her,  for  God's 
sake !  Tell  her  that — that —  But  no !  there  is 
nothing  to  tell  her ;  I  have  no  excuse — I  can  only 
go/" 

He  suits  the  action  to  the  word  as  he  speaks, 
and  she  follows  him  into  the  hall,  and  sees  him 


i<»fcly  out  of  the  liouvc  biTore  shi'  turns  the  door* 
liandic  of  lior  dau^^litti's  luoni. 

Iiene  is  Killing  in  an  ultiludu  of  expectation, 
hiT hands  idly  folded  on  her  laj),  and  fltrul  IduNliiH 
chasing  cacli  oilier  ovrr  lior  lact?  ^\•^  tho  lijlt'iid 
to  tho  footsteps  in  tliu  hull.  AVhin  her  mothtr 
enters,  [-111.'  starts  up  suddenly,  and  then  sits  down 
ogain,  as  though  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  was 
doing. 

"  Is  he  gone?  "  she  says,  in  a  tone  of  disap. 
poiutnu'iit,  us  Mrs.  St.  John  advaiu'es  to  take  livr 
tenderly  in  her  orms. 

"  And  who  may  he  be  ?  "  in(|uirt's  tlio  molhor, 
with  a  ghastly  attempt  at  playfulness,  not  know- 
ing how  to  broach  the  intelligence  she  bears. 

"  Mr.  Keir — Erie  ! — has  he  not  been  speaking 
to  you?  O  mother!"  hiding  htr  face  with  a 
sudden  burst  of  ."hamo  on  Mis.  Ht,  John's  I'losoni ; 
"  I  am  not  quite  sure,  but  I  think — I  think  hv 
loves  me  I " 

Mrs.  St.  John  docs  not  know  what  to  answer, 
For  a  minute  she  holds  her  daughter  in  her  uriiiii 
and  says  nothing.  Then  Irene  feels  the  trembling 
of  her  mother's  figure,  and  looks  up  alarmed. 

"Mother!  is  there  any  thing  tho  matter! 
Arc  you  not  well  ? " 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter,  my  diirling — nt 
leaat,  not  much.  But  you  were  speaking  of  Mr. 
Keir — he  is  gone ! " 

"Gone— why?" 

"  Because  he  is  not  a  gentleman,  Irene." 

"  Mother ! " 

"  He  is  not  worthy  of  you,  child  ;  he  has  been 
playing  with  your  feelings,  omusing  himself  nt 
your  expense.  0  Irene,  my  darling,  you  arc  so 
brave,  so  good.  You  will  bear  this  like  a  woman, 
and  despise  him  as  he  deserves." 

"  Bear  this  1  bear  what?  "  says  the  girl,  stand- 
ing suddenly  upright ;  "  I  do  not  comprehend 
you,  mother — I  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking 
of." 

"  I  am  talking  of  Mr.  Keir,  Irene ;  I  am  telling 
you  that  he  is  utterly  unworthy  of  another  thougbt 
from  you — that  he  has  dangled  about  you  until 
the  world  has  connected  your  names  together, 
and  that  he  has  no  intentions  concerning  you ; 
ho  has  just  told  me  so." 

"  No  intentions  I "  repeats  her  daughter,  va- 
cantly ;  "  no  intentions ! " 

"  He  has  no  intention  of  proposing  to  you, 
Irene — of  marrying  you ;  he  has  meant  nothing 
by  it  all." 

"Nothing!"  repeats  Irene,  in  the  same 
dreamy  way. 


EIUC'S  DISMhSSAL. 


21 


hIiu  tiii-nii  the  (luor- 

idi'  of  cxiii'i'liitloii, 
p,  and  litl'ul  l)lushr..i 
uc'is  «;*  tlu)  li^'trii/i 
When  her  iiiothtr 
anil  then  siU.-i  down 
knew  whixl  nhu  was 

in  u  lonu  of  dUap. 
ilvaiicfH  to  tako  hir 

n(Hilii>s  tlio  mother, 
yriihic!'!*,  not  know. 
I'noc  she  lK'arj<. 
B  not  been  Hpeakhig 
^  her  face  with  u 
».  St.  John'H  1)080111 ; 
tlihik— I  think  he 


low  what  to  answer. 
uightcr  in  her  urma 
10  fculs  the  trfmbUng 
loka  up  alarmed, 
thing   the  matter? 

liter,  my  dialing— nt 
ere  speaking  of  Mr. 


tlcman,  Iienc." 

ehilJ  ;  he  has  been 
amuBing  himeclf  at 
darling,  you   arc  so 

this  like  a  woman, 

says  the  girl,  Btnnd- 
0  not  comprehonJ 
hat  you  are  talkinj; 


ir 

es, 


Irene  ;  I  am  telling 
of  another  thought 
ed  about  you  until 
lur  name3  together, 
s  concerning  you; 

8  her  daughter,  va- 

proposing  to  you, 
has  meant  nothing 

•ene,    in   the    same 


Tho  l.ici'Khroudcd  window.^  of  the  room  nro 
jpcn,  ond  the  faint,  rleh  odor  from  tho  boxes  of 
»toel%i'  and  ndj,Mionette  that  ailorn  Iti*  nills  thmlH 
Into  the  cliiinilter,  briuKln^  with  it  u  iiieniory  of 
bothouKc  planli*,  wlille  band  miihIc  from  nn  ad- 
jfiliilnj;  xiiiiare  coninienee't  to  iiiiike  It-ielf  indi^- 
tiurtl.v  heard. 

"  Yes,  »^)M/ll/^"  continued  MrH.  Pt.  John,  ren- 
dered l)oMer  by  her  daiiKhter's  paHHivenesi  and 
ller  own  Indignation.     "  I  have  jiis-t  put  the  <pi>- 

!on  to  him— it  was*  my  duty  to  do  »o,  Heel:i 
hat  marked  attention  lio  has  paid  you  lately, 
id— I  couldn't  have  believed  it  of  Mr.  Keir;  I 
iboii;:ht  M  much  innrc  hi^;hly  of  him— he  told  me 
fcniy  face  that  ho  had  never  even  thouj;ht  of  you 
M  any  thing  but  a  friend.  A  friend.  Indeed! 
Ob,  my  dearei-t  girl !  that  any  man  uliould  daro 
tocpeak  of  you  in  such  terms  of  indilTereneo — it 
#Qi  break  my  heart ! "  and  Mrs.  St.  John  at- 
tttnpts  to  ea.st  herself  into  her  daughter'^  orms 
•lain.  Hut  Irene  i)uts  her  from  her— reimlses 
lifcr— almost  roughly." 
•'    "  Mother  !  Iiow  (hired  you  do  it  ?  " 

The  wonls  are  such  as  she  ha^f  never  pre- 
jUimcd  to  use  to  her  mother   before;    tho    tone 
tren  is  not  her   own.     Mrs.  St.  John  looks  up 
MTrightedly. 
•'■    "  Irentt  !  " 

^'  "llow  dared  you  subject  mc  to  such  an  insult 
•  -expose  mc  in  so  cruel  a  manner;  make  mo 
(fcepieablo  to  myself?" 

"  My  child,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

'  "  Cannot  a  man  be  friendly  and  agreeable  w  ith- 

HitL  being  called  upon  to  undergo  so  humiUating  an 

dlaniination  ?    Is  a  girl  never  to  speak  to  one  of 

Mpe  other  sex  without  being  suspected  of  a  desire 

i  marry  him  ?     Is  there  to  be  no  friendship,  no 

Irdiality,  no  confidence  in  this  world,  but  the 

Irtics  are  immediately  required  to  bind   them- 

Ives  down  to  a  union  which  would  be  repug- 

|int  to  both  ?     It  is  this  stylo  of  thing  which 

ikes  rae    hate    society  and  all  its    shams — 

liich  will   go  far   now  to  make  me  hate   my- 

llf!" 

"Irene!  my  dear!"  cries  Mrs,  St.  John, 
embling  all  over ;  "  you  do  not  consider  that  I 
your  guardian,  and  this  precaution,  which  ap- 
jiears  so  unnecessary  to  you,  became  a  duty  for 
Hie  to  take.  Would  you  have  had  mc  receive  his 
^sits  here  until  he  had  entangled  your  affections 
bore  inextricably,  perhaps,  than  he  has  done  at 
fcrcscnt  ? " 

"Who  says  he  has  done  so — who  Jarca  to 
ly  it  ? " 
.  The  girl's  pride  is  raging  and  warring  within 


h<>r.  She  hat  been  roiined  from  her  tender  love- 
dream  by  a  Htern  reality,  nlie  \*  <iulvtri!HJ!  uiicler 
tilt!  shoek  even  as  nhe  cpeakii,  but  her  lirnl 
thought  is  to  save  her  wounded  honor. 

".My  Irene!  I  thought — I  never  dreatned  but 
that  you  liked  him — Judging  from  the  inaMiier  in 
which  you  received  and  spoke  of  him." 

"Liked  him!  Is  Hiving,  love?  You  judged 
me  too  (piickly,  mother.  You  have  not  read 
down  to  tho  lepths  of  my  heart." 

"  Y'lU  do  not  love  him,  llien,  my  darling — this 
business  will  not  make  you  miserable!'  0  Irene 
—speak !  you  cannot  think  wliat  suspcn.>e  costs 
me." 

The  girl  hesitates  for  a  moment,  turns  to  sec 
tho  IVall  ligurc  before  her,  the  thin  cla.-'ped  hands, 
the  an.\ious,  sorrow-laileti  eyes  waiting  her  ver- 
diet,  and  hesitates  no  longer. 

"  I  would  not  marry  Kric  Keir,  motlier,  to- 
morrow for  all  this  worlil  could  give  me." 

"  Oil !  thank  Goil !  tliank  Ood  !  "  cries  Mrs. 
St.  John,  liy.sterically,  ns  she  sinks  upon  a  sofa. 
In  anotiier  moment  Irene  is  kneeling  by  her 
side. 

"  Di'ure.-'t  mother!  iliil  I  speak  unkindly  to 
you?  (Ml!  forgive  me  !  You  know  how  proud 
I  am,  and  it  hurts  me,  just  for  the  time  lieing. 
Hut  it  is  over  now.  Forget  it,  dear  motlier — we 
will  both  forget  it,  and  every  thing  concerning  it 
— and  go  on  as  before.  Oh !  what  a  wretch  I 
am  to  have  made  you  weep ! " 

"  I  did  it  for  the  best,  Irene.  I  only  did 
what  I  considered  my  duty — it  is  a  very  common 
thing :  it  takes  place  every  day.  But  so  long  as 
his  conduct  docs  not  affect  your  happiness,  there 
is  no  harm  done." 

"There  is  no  harm  done,"  echoes  tho  girl, 
with  parched  lips,  and  eyes  that  are  determined 
not  to  cr5', 

"  It  will  put  a  Ptop  to  his  coming  here,  and  I 
dare  say  you  will  miss  him  at  fir.^t,  Irene.  Yoi'iig 
people  like  to  be  together ;  but  you  must  remem- 
ber how  detrimental  such  an  intimacy  would  bo 
to  your  future  prospects  ;  no  one  else  would  pre- 
sume to  come  forward  while  a  man  like  Erie 
Keir  is  hanging  about  the  house;  and  I  slu.uld 
never  forgive  myself  if  I  permitted  him  to  amuse 
himself  at  the  expense  of  your  settlement  in  life. 
Ho  ought  to  know  better  than  to  wish  such  a 
thing." 

"  He  knows  better  now,''  replied  her  daughter, 
soothingly. 

"  Yes — yes  !  if  only  ho  has  not  wounded  you, 
0  Irene ! "  with  a  sudden  burst  of  passion  most 
foreign  to  her  disposition,  "  you  arc  my  only  hopo 


H 


If 

■    I 


h 


V 


hi 


22 


"  NO   INTEiNTIOXS; 


filCC, 


1:1 


— my  only  consolution.     Look    mo  in  the 
aud  tell  rau  that  you  du  not  lore  liiin." 

"  Mother,  darling,  you  are  ill  and  agitated ; 
this  wretched  business  has  been  too  much  for 
you.  Go  and  lie  down,  dear  mothor,  and  try  to 
bleep  ;  and  when  we  meet  again  wo  will  agree  to 
drop  the  subject  altogether." 

"  We  will  —  wc  will.  Ilcaven  knows  I  am 
only  anxious  that  it  should  bo  forgotten — only 
tell  me,  Irene,  that  j-ou  do  not  love  him." 

Pho  clings  to  her  daughter — she  will  not  be 
gainsaid;  her  eyes  arc  fixed  searchingly  upon 
Irene's — the  girl  feels  like  a  stag  at  bay;  one 
moment  she  longs  to  pour  out  the  trath — the 
next  death  would  not  tear  it  from  her. 

"  I  Jo  not  love  him  !  "  she  answers,  with  clo.sed 
teeth. 

"  Say  it  again  ! "  exclaims  Mrs.  St.  John, 
with  a  feverish  burst  of  joy. 

"7  do  not  love  him!  Mother,  is  not  tl;at 
enough  ?  "  Bhc  goes  on  rapidly.  "  Why  should 
you  doubt  my  word  ?  Go,  dear  mother ;  pray 
go  and  take  the  rest  you  need,  and  leave  me  to — 
to— myself!" 

She  pushes  Mrs.  St.  John  gently  but  forcibly 
from  the  apartment,  and  locks  the  door.  Then 
she  staggers  to  the.  table,  blindly,  grojiingly,  and 
leans  her  back  against  it,  grasping  the  edges  with 
her  hands. 

"  The  first  lie  that  I  have  ever  told  her,"  she 
whispers  to  herself;  "  the  first  lie — and  yet,  is  it 
a  lie  ?  do  I  love  him — or  do  I  hate  him  ?  " 

She  stands  for  a  minute  hard  as  stone,  her 
nervous  hands  grasping  the  table,  her  firm  teeth 
pressed  upon  her  lower  lip,  as  though  defying  it 
to  quiver,  while  all  that  Eric  Keir  has  ever  said 
to  her  comes  rushing  back  upon  her  mind. 

The  scent  of  the  stocks  and  mignonette  is 
wafted  past  her  with  every  breath  that  stirs  the 
curtains  :  the  band  in  the  adjacent  square  has  al- 
iered  its  position ;  it  draws  nearer— changes  its 
air — the  notes  of  the  "  Blue  Danube  "  waltz  come 
floating  through  the  open  window.  It  is  the  last 
memory — all  her  determination  fades  before  it. 

"  God  help  me  1 "  she  cries,  as  she  sinks,  sob- 
bing, on  the  sofa. 

Mrs.  St.  John  is  bound  to  believe  what  her 
daughter  tells  her ;  but  she  is  not  satisfied  about 
her  daughter's  health.  The  season  goes  on — 
Irene  does  not  fail  to  fulfill  one  engagement — she 
dresses  and  dances  and  talks  gayly  as  before,  and 
yet  there  is  a  something — ^undistinguishable,  per- 
haps, except  to  the  eye  of  affection — that  makes 
her  unlike  her  former  self. 


She  is  harder  than  .-^he  used  to  be — more  cyni. 
cal — less  open  to  belief  in  truth  and  virtue. 

Added  to  which,  her  appetite  is  variable,  aiil 
the  drinks  wine  feverishly — almoso  eagerly — anj 
at  odd  intervals  of  time.  Mrs.  St.  John  calls  in 
her  favorite  doctor,  Mr.  Fcttingall.  Mr.  retthi. 
gall  id  not  a  fashionabie  ph3sieian,  he  is  an  old 
family  doctor;  ho  has  known  Irene  since  lur 
birth,  and  is  as  well  acquainted  with  her  consti- 
tution as  with  that  of  his  own  wife,  lie  settles 
the  question  on  the  first  interview. 

"  Depression  of  the  vital  powers,  Mrs.  St. 
John,  caused  by  undue  excitement  and  fatigue. 
Your  young  lady  has  been  going  a  little  too  fast 
this  season.  She  has  been  sitting  up  too  late 
and  dancing  too  much ;  perhaps,  also,  flirting  too 
much.  Nothing  the  matter  with  the  heart,  I  sup. 
pose,  eh  ? " 

"  Oh,  dear  no,  doctor  I  at  least,  Irene  assures 
me  it  is  not  the  case,  though  her  spirits  are  cer- 
tainly very  variable." 

"  Xo  sign  at  all !  A  life  of  dissipation  is  sure 
to  make  the  spirits  variable.  Take  her  away, 
aud  she'll  be  well  in  a  month." 

"  Away,  doctor !  what,  before  the  season  is 
over  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  unless  you  wish  her  health  to  be 
over  with  the  season.  And  a  change  will  do  you 
no  harm  either,  Mrs.  St.  John.  Why,  you  want 
twice  as  much  doctoring  as  your  daughter." 

"  That's  what  I  tell  mamma,"  exclaims  Irene, 
who  has  entered  during  the  last  sentence ;  "  but 
she  will  not  believe  me.  Let  us  join  cause 
against  her,  Mr.  Fcttingall,  and  get  her  out  of 
this  hateful  London." 

"  Why,  my  dear !  would  you  really  like  to 
go  ?  "  says  Mrs.  St.  John." 

"  I  would  like  to  go  anywhere,  to  see  you 
strong  again,  mother." 

"  That's  right !  a  good  daughter  is  the  best 
medicine  a  mother  can  have.  You  hear  what 
Miss  St.  John  says,  madam.  She  will  go  any- 
where to  do  you  good — and  her.self  too ! " 

"  Siic  has  always  been  my  comfort !  "  mur- 
murs Mrs.  St.  John. 

"  And  I,  as  your  medical  adviser,  recommend 
a  trip  abroad." 

"  Abroad ! " 

"  Certainly.  Three  or  four  months'  run  in  the 
Austrian  Tyrol,  for  instance — or  the  Pyrenees. 
Please  yourselves,  however,  and  you'll  please  mc 
^-only  get  out  of  London.  It  is  quite  as  neces- 
sary for  your  health,  Mrs.  St.  John,  as  for  your 
daughter's." 

"  Mother !  we  will  go  at  once.    We  will  not 


CUAXGE  OF  AIR. 


23 


;d  to  be — more  cyni. 
ath  uud  virtue, 
.'titc  is  variable,  ani 
almost  eagerly — and 
va.  Bt.  John  calls  in 
ingall.  Mr.  rcttia- 
':«ician,  he  is  an  old 
m\  Irene  since  Ir'v 
;cd  with  her  consli- 
tn  wife,  lie  settled 
•view. 

I   powers,  Mrs.  St. 
;ement  and  fatijiue. 
)ing  a  little  too  fa<t 
sitting  up  too  lato 
ips,  also,  flirting  too 
vith  the  heart,  1  sup- 
least,  Irene  assures 
her  spirits  are  cc.'- 

)f  dissipation  is  sure 
>.     Take  her  away, 

icfore  the  season  ia 

ish  her  health  to  be 
I  change  will  do  you 
n.  AVhy,  you  want 
our  daughter." 
na,"  exclaims  Irene, 
ast  sentence ;  "  but 
Let  us  join  cause 
ind  get  her  out  of 

you  I'cally  like  to 

.where,  to  see  you 

aughter  is  the  best 
You  bear  what 
She  will  go  ani/- 
2r.self  too ! " 
y  comfort !  "  mur- 

idvlscr,  recommend 


months'  runiu  the 
—OP  the  Pyrenees. 
nd  you'll  please  me 
t  is  quite  as  neces- 

John,  as  for  your 

)ncc.    We  will  not 


m^ 


ilelny  a  day  longer  than  is  necessary.  Thank 
*ou,  Mr.  I'ettingall,  for  speaking  out  your  mind 
mo  frankly.  I  have  been  blind  not  to  see  before 
^hat  my  mother  wanted  change." 
1  From  that  moment  Irene  comes  out  of  her- 
Iclf,  and  takes  all  necessary  cares  and  arrange- 
ments on  her  own  hands.  She  forgets  her  trou- 
ble—her haunting  regret ;  her  only  wish  is  to  see 
fcer  mother's  health  restored. 
4  "  I  have  been  selfish,"  she  thinks,  as  she 
ijoves  about  from  room  to  room,  giving  the  final 
Jrdcrs  for  their  departure.  "I  have  been  so 
Inxious  to  forget  my  own  misery  that  I  have 
fragged  my  poor  mother  out  much  more  than  is 
good  for  her — and  this  is  the  end  of  it.  Oh  !  if 
I  should  have  really  upset  her  health — if  this 
change  should  even  prove  too  late !  Good  God ! 
how  shall  I  ever  forgive  myself— or  him  ! " 

She  has  not  seen  him  since  the  interview  he 
had  with  Mrs.  St.  John :  she  has  gone  out  each 
orening  feverishly  expectant  of  his  presence ; 
Ipnging,  yet  dreading,  to  encounter  him  :  and  she 
]^s  dragged  out  the  weary  time  with  a  heart  of 
lead  in  her  bosom,  because  he  has  never  come — 
l^eing,  in  point  of  fact,  hundreds  of  miles  away 
it  his  father's  seat  in  Scotland,  thou;,'li  no  one 
11.S  her  so 
"  Afraid  to  meet  me ! "  she  has  thought  bit- 
<prly.  "  Yes,  fear  was  about  the  last  ingredient 
Wanting  in  his  cup  of  dishonor.  IIow  could  I 
eyer  have  been  so'niad  as  to  think  he  loved  me  ?  " 

The  first  place  they  try  for  change  of  air  is 

Bpchefort,  in  the  Ardennes. 

mM  A  lovely  fertile  valley,  surrounded  by  heather- 

Ivered  hills,  the  slopes  of  which  are  alive  with 

pld  blossoms,  and    the  feet  watered  by  clear 

reams,  repose  and  peace  seem  to  be  the  natural 

baraeteristics,  the  inevitable  consequences,  of  a 

ife  in  Rochefort. 

But  does  peace  come  to  the  broken  spirit 
gore  readily  in  quiet  than  in  bustle  ?  I  don'  it. 
What  do  we  fly  from,  if  not  from  memory  ? 
Ind  can  it  come  ao  closely  to  us  in  a  crowd,  where 
jlien  faces  push  between  as  and  the  semblance 
If  the  face  we  love'J,  and  alien  voices,  clamoring 
Br  money  or  for  interest,  drown  the  sweet,  false 
.jtones  that  poisoned  our  existence,  as  when  we 
■w^.-xlk  alone  and  weary  on  ihe  footpath  of  life,  too 
■jWeary,  it  may  be,  even  to  have  strength  to  push 
j^side  that  which  we  dread  to  look  on  ? 

Irene  finds  it  so.  In  London,  amid  the  whirl 
tnd  turmoil  of  the  season,  she  thought  that  she 
vas  strong  enough  to  bear  all  things,  even  the 
knowledge — the  bitterest  knowledge  to  a  woman 


— that  she  had  given  Kric  Kcir  love  in  exchange 
for  liking— fine  gold  for  dro.-s  that  tarnished  at 
the  first  touch. 

But  here,  in  peaceful,  slumbering  Rochefort, 
she  id  funi  to  confess  herself  defeated.  Here, 
where  she  can  wander  for  miles  without  meeting 
a  soul  to  break  her  solitude,  his  memory  walks 
beside  her  like  a  haunting  'rihost  from  which  she 
prays  to  be  delivered. 

Xot  mockingly  nor  coMly,  not  with  a  gesture 
or  a  look  that  can  awake  her  pride,  but  as  her 
heart  remembers  him — as  it  had  hoped  he  would 
4c,  until  her  over-burdened  .spirit  can  bear  the 
strain  no  longer,  and  sinks  down  updu  the  gra^s, 
dappled  with  flowers  and  murmuring  witii  in- 
sects, and  prays  God  she  may  die. 

Only  to  rise,  when  her  moan  is  over,  burning 
with  indignation  agAinst  herself  and  him  ;  hating 
herself,  perhaps,  even  more  than  him,  for  having 
sunk  so  low  as  to  regret  him.  Mrs.  St.  John 
knows  nothing  of  all  this ;  she  is  too  feeble  to 
walk  beyond  a  short  distance,  and  Irene  never 
appears  before  her  except  in  good  spirits  and 
with  a  beaming  countenance. 

Tho  mother  is  deceived — she  feels  her  own 
health  is  failing,  but  she  believes  in  the  restora- 
tion of  hor  child.  Irene  reads  lier  belief,  and  is 
satisfied. 

Nevertheless,  as  soon  as  the  weather  will  per- 
mit then),  she  persuades  Mrs.  St.  John  to  move 
on  to  Brussels.  She  knows  that,  in  order  to  keep 
up  her  rolcy  she  must  be  moving  ;  one  more 
month  of  Rochefort  and  the  ghost  of  Erie  Keir, 
and  she  should  break  down  entirel}-. 

Brussels  is  full  and  gay ;  the  September  /ties 
arc  going  on,  and  the  town  is  crowded.  Mrs.  St. 
John  and  her  daughter  take  "p  their  abode  at 
one  of  the  principal  hotels,  uud  prepare  to  enjoy 
life  to  tho  uttermost. 

Enjoy  life  to  the  uttermost !  I  wonder  which 
of  us  ever  believes  that  he  or  she  has  reached 
the  "uttermost"  —  or,  having  ren.ched  it,  how 
long  we  believe  it  to  be  such  ? 

The  "  uttermost,"  if  ever  we  attain  it  (how 
few  do !)  usually  makes  us  so  giddy,  we  are  not 
aware,  until  we  touch  the  bottom  of  the  ladder 
itgain,  how  quickly  we  have  descended. 

Irene's  uttermost  at  this  juncture  consists  of 
running  about  to  see  all  there  is  to  be  seen ;  and 
that  is  very  soon  brought  to  a  close  by  Mrs.  St. 
John's  increasing  weakness.  She  longs  to  ac- 
company her  daughter,  but  she  cannot  accom- 
plish it,  and  the  girl's  solitary  rambles  through 
picture  -  galleries  and  museums  begin  only  too 
soon  to  assume  the  same  character  as  her  walks 


WT 


'NO  INTENTIONS." 


!  I 


V 


'V\ 


!.  I 


I 


!  i 


in  Rochefort.  She  comes  to  understand  that  the 
companionship  she  needs  is  something  more  than 
is  to  be  found  in  a  stronge  crowd ;  it  must  be  an 
active  conversational  presence — something  that 
shall  barter  bright  thoughts  for  her  dull  ones, 
and  force  her  to  exert  her  intellectual  powers. 
A  real  wholesomo  want  seldom  arises  in  this 
world  without  the  possibility  of  gratifying  it.  In 
a  few  days  Irene  finds  the  companion  ready  to 
hand. 

She  returns  one  afternoon  to  the  hotel,  after 
having  permitted  her  feverish  imagination  to 
hold  converse  for  hours  with  the  fantastic  hor- 
rors of  Wierlz,  and  disturbs  her  mother  in  the 
midst  of  a  conversation  with  a  stranger — a  gen- 
tleman of  about  fifty,  or  perhaps  a  few  years 
older — whom  Irene  has  never  seen  before. 

She  stands  at  the  door  for  a  moment  irreso- 
lute, uncertain  whether  to  enter  or  retreat ;  but 
Mrs.  St.  John  catches  sight  of  her. 

"  Irene,  my  darling  t "  she  exclaims.  "  I  am 
so  glad  you  are  come  home  I  Only  think :  this 
gentleman  is  your  nearest  relation  on  your  dear 
father's  side  —  his  cousin,  Colonel  Mordaunt ; 
isn't  it  wondofful  that  we  should  have  mei  each 
other  here?" 


CHAPTER  III, 

Colonel  Mordacst  is  the  best  specimen  of  a 
fine  old  English  gentleman  that  Irene  has  ever 
come  across.  She  sees  that  at  the  first  glance. 
Of  middle  height,  with  a  well-knit  figure,  florid 
complexion,  good  features,  and  bair  with  the  lus- 
tre of  gray  batin  on  it,  he  presents  all  the  out- 
ward qualifications  that  go  to  make  up  the  pict. 
ure  of  a  man  of  birth  and  breeding,  and  she  takes 
a  fancy  to  her  new  relative  at  once.  Mrs.  St. 
John,  too,  who  is  in  an  unusual  state  of  flush  and 
flutter,  seems  to  have  been  quite  overcome  by  the 
unexpected  encounter. 

"  Is  it  not  strange,"  she  keeps  on  repeating, 
"  that  we  should  have  met  here — in  Brussels — 
after  so  mony  years  ? — Irene,  my  dear !  you  will 
welcome  Colonel  Mordaunt,  I  am  sure,  if  only  for 
your  poor  father's  sake." 

The  girl  comes  forward  with  her  hand  ex- 
tended, and  the  stranger,  with  old-fashioned  polite- 
ness, and  dead-and-gone  chivalry,  raises  it  respect- 
fully to  his  lips. 

"  Poor  Tom  1 "  he  murmurs  as  ho  docs  so ; 
"  poor  Tom !  I  can  trace  a  slight  likeness  to  him 
9S  he  was,  even  in  your  blooming  face,  my  fair 
young  cousin." 


"  She  was  always  tliouglit  to  have  a  look  of 
him,"  sighs  the  mother,  "  ut  I  scarcely  imagined 
it  was  so  apparent. — 0  Ir  >ne !  you  cannot  think 
what  a  comfort  it  is  for  rao  to  have  stumbled  on 
your  cousin  in  this  way — so  weak  and  good-for- 
nothing  as  I  am.  You  will  never  need  to  stay  at 
home  now  for  want  of  an  escort — Colonel  Mor- 
daunt says  he  will  be  charmed  to  take  you  any. 
where." 

"With  your  own  kind  perniission,"  interposes 
Colonel  Mordaunt. 

"You  are  very  good,"  replies  Irene.  "Arc 
yon,  then,  staying  in  Brussels?  " 

"  I  am  here  for  a  few  days,  on  my  way  back 
to  England.  I  have  been  .^pending  the  summer 
at  the  Baths." 

"  Not  remedially,  I  trust  ?  "  says  Mrs.  St.,  John, 
with  a  sudden,  anxious  glance  of  interest  at  the 
robust-looking  man  who  stands  before  her. 

"  Well,  I  cannot  quite  say  no:  though  precau- 
tionary would  be  the  better  word.  You  remem- 
ber our  family  tendency  to  gout,  Mrs.  St.  John? 
Poor  Tom  used  to  have  a  twinge  of  it  occasion- 
ally, and  it  wos  the  complaint  that  carried  off  my 
grandfather.  I  have  had  one  or  two  warnings 
during  the  last  four  years,  and  so  I  took  advan- 
tage of  the  hot  weather  to  put  myself  to  rights 
for  the  season." 

"  The  season ! "  echoes  Mrs.  St.  John,  to 
whom  there  is  no  season  but  one. 

"  The  hunting-season ! "  It  sounds  very  dread- 
ful, does  it  not  ?  but  I  fear  there  is  no  other  sea- 
son that  conveys  any  interest  to  my  ears.  1  am 
master  of  the  hounds  down  in  my  part  of  Leices- 
tershire, and  spend  my  days  between  the  stables 
and  the  kennel.  It  is  a  fine  sport,  Mrs.  St.  John, 
and  a  man  must  have  something  to  do." 

"  Then,  I  suppose  you  are  very  anxious  to  get 
home  ogain,"  remarks  Irene. 

"  I  was  anxious  to  do  so,  I  confess,  but  I  have 
no  intention  of  stirring  now,  so  long  as  I  can  be 
of  any  use  to  you  or  to  your  mother." 

"  How  kind ! "  murmurs  Mrs.  St.  John  ;  and 
her  daughter  adds,  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  find 
shopping  and  sight-seeing  very  tame  work  for 
which  to  exchange  the  pleasures  of  the  field.  Colo- 
nel Mordaunt." 

"Without  their  motive,  perhaps — yes.  With 
their  motive,  they  can  admit  of  no  rivalry  in  my 
eycD ! " 

"  What  an  extremely  polite  old  gentleman ! " 
exclaims  Irene,  as  soon  as  the  colonel  has  disap- 
peared. However  did  you  find  him  out,  moth' 
er?" 


COLONEL  MORDAUNT. 


25 


to  have  a  look  of 
I  scarcely  iamgincd 
!  you  cannot  think 
9  huvc  Btuniblcd  on 
ivcak  and  good-fur- 
ever  need  to  stay  at 
cort — Colonel  Mor. 
d  to  tnkc  you  any. 

mission,"  interposes 

plies  Irene.  "Arc 
?  " 

vs,  on  my  way  back 
lending  the  summer 

'  says  Mrs.  St.,  John, 
0  of  interest  at  the 
la  before  her. 
no :  though  precaii- 
vord.  You  remem- 
ont,  Mrs.  St.  John? 
ingc  of  it  occasion- 
;  that  carried  off  my 
le  or  two  warnings 
d  so  I  took  advan- 
ut  myself  to  rights 

Mrs.  St.  John,  to 
one. 

sounds  very  dread- 
lerc  is  no  other  sea- 

to  my  ears.     1  am 

my  part  of  Leice?- 
jetween  the  stables 
port,  Mrs.  St.  John, 

iig  to  do." 

very  anxious  to  get 

confess,  but  I  have 

o  long  as  I  can  bo 

lothcr." 

Mrs.  St.  John  ;  and 

"raid  you  will  find 

ry  tame  work  for 

js  of  the  field,  Colo- 

irhnps — yes.  With 
if  no  rivalry  in  my 


i  old  gentleman  I " 
colonel  has  disap- 
id  him  out,  moth' 


"  By  the  simplest  accident  in  the  world.  He 
pencd  the  door  of  my  sitting-room  in  inistako 
Dr  his  own.  I  never  was  so  surprised  in  my  life. 
§  nearly  screamed  !  " 
•^  "  Then  you  have  met  him  before  ?  " 
It  "  Yes — oh  yea ! — of  course — many  years  igo." 
.  "  Hut  why  have  /never  seen  him,  then  ?  He 
Mys  he  lives  in  Leicestershire  :  why  did  he  never 
«0>ne  to  my  father's  house  ?  " 

Mr.a.  St.  John  looks  uneasy.  She  shifts  about 
tk  her  chair,  and  rolls  up  her  satin  cap-strings  till 
:«cy  are  ruined,  and  talks  rapidly  with  a  faint, 
■lilty  color  coming  and  going  in  her  faded  checks. 
M.  "  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  dear,  your  fu- 
tfier  and  Colonei  jlordaunt,  although  cousins, 
were  not  the  best  of  friends ;  that  is  to  say,  they 
once  had  a  quarrel  about  something,  and  after 
"  that  they  ceased  to  visit  each  other." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  serious  quarrel  to  cause 
■Itch  a  complete  separation.  Arc  you  sure  that 
Colonel  Mordannt  was  not  the  one  in  the  wrong, 
mother  ?  Would  my  father  have  liked  us  to  be- 
liinie  intimate  with  him  again  ?  " 
•;.  Irene  has  a  great  reverence  for  the  memory 
iif  her  father ;  she  is  always  questioning  what  he 
i|ould  or  would  not  have  wished  them  to  do, 
actimes  to  the  ruffling  of  her  mother's  placid 


tm 
mi 


imper. 
%  "  Dear  me,  Irene !  I  should  think  you  might 
Oust  me  to  judge  of  such  matters !  Do  you  think 
liiwould  have  introduced  him  to  you  otherwise  ? 
Cke  disagreement  had  nothing  to  do  with  Colonel 
llordaunt's  conduct.  He  behaved  extremely  well 
tljroughout  the  whole  affair.  Only  yotir  father 
1  not  choose  that  the  intimacy  should  be  rc- 
ved." 

"  And  yet  ho  was  his  nearest  relative." 

"  Quite  the  nearest.    You  know  what  a  small 

nily  ours  is — ridiculously  small,  in  fact.     Your 

eat-grandfathcr  was  a  Baddenall,  and  his  two 

lughters,  co-heiresses,  became  respectively  Mrs. 

iordaunt  and  Mrs.  St.  John;  and  eadi  lefl  an 

hly  son —  your  father  and  this  cousin.    You  see 

bw  absurdly  it  makes  the  family  dwindle !    There 

!  females,  of  course,  but  they  don't  count — your 

rn  married  aunts,  you  know ;  but  Colonel  Mor- 

lunt's  sister  is  still  single.    So  you  see,  if  you 

i|e  to  have  any  family  at  all  on  your  father's  side, 

1$  would  be  quite  wrong  not  to  make  friends  with 

bis  man,  now  that  we  have  so  happily  fallen  in 

^ith  him  again.    And,  indeed,  the  quarrel  was 

Ibout  nothing  that  need  concern  you,  Irene ;  noth- 

ag  at  all." 

"  I  will  take  your  word  for  it,  mother.     Colo- 
|cl  Mordaunt  does  not  look  like  a  man  who 


would  do  a  mean  or  dishonorable  thing.  And  at 
all  events,  it  is  not  necessary  to  quarrel  forever." 

"  It  would  be  very  wrong  and  senseless  to  do 
so.  You  w'il  find  him  a  most  interesting  compan- 
ion ;  full  of  life  and  conversation,  and  witii  that 
charming  d  jferencc  in  his  manner  toward  women 
whicii  one  ao  seldom  meets  with  in  young  men 
nowadavi.  They  have  not  improved  since  the 
time  when  I  was  young." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  says  her  daughter,  with  a 
sigh;  and  then  she  laughs,  quite  unnecessarily, 
except  to  hide  that  sigh.  "  I  really  like  Colonel 
Mordaunt,  mother,  and  should  be  sorry  not  to  be 
able  to  take  advantage  of  his  overtures  of  friend- 
shin  I  think  he  is  one  of  the  handsomest  old 
men  I  ever  saw,  and  his  manners  are  quite  cour- 
tier-like." 

"You  should  have  seen  him  when  he  was 
young  !  "  replies  her  mother,  with  an  echo  of  the 
sigh  that  Irene  was  ke?n  enough  to  check. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  fully  bears  out  the  promise 
of  '.lis  introduction.  He  is  with  them  every  day 
— almost  every  hour :  he  is  at  the  beck  and  call 
of  Irene  St.  John  from  morning  until  night. 

If  she  desires  to  attend  the  Marche  aux  Flours 
at  five  o'clock  A.  m.,  to  lay  in  flowers  and  fruit 
for  the  day's  consumption.  Colonel  Mordaunt, 
faultlessly  attired  for  the  occasion,  is  waiting  to 
attend  her  footsteps,  even  though  it  has  cost  him 
half  his  night's  rest  in  order  to  be  up  and  dressed 
in  time. 

Does  she  express  a  wish  to  visit  the  Quinconce, 
and  push  her  way  among  a  mob  of  Bruxellois  at 
eight  o'clock  at  night,  or  to  attend  opera  or  /cte, 
still  is  the  faithful  gentleman  ready  to  accompany 
his  young  cousin  wherever  she  may  choose  to  go, 
only  anxious  to  be  made  use  of  in  any  way,  so 
long  as  the  way  accords  with  her  own  desires. 
And  he  is  really  no  less  desirable  than  pertina- 
cious a  chaperon,  this  Colonel  Mordaunt ;  so 
highly  respectable,  as  Irene  laughingly  declares ; 
so  thorough  a  gentleman,  as  sighs  her  mother, 
who  has  to  be  content  to  hear  of  his  gallantry 
and  not  to  share  in  it. 

Set  almost  free  by  the  companionship  of 
Colonel  Mordaunt,  Irene  St.  John  rushes  about 
at  this  period  far  more  than  she  desires.  She  is 
feverishly  anxious  to  conceal  from  her  mother  the 
real  pain  that  is  gnawing  at  her  heart,  and  poi- 
soning every  enjoyment  in  which  she  attempts  to 
take  a  share :  and  she  is  madly  bent  on  destroy- 
ing for  herself  a  remembrance  that  threatens  to 
quench  all  that  is  worth  calling  life  in  her.  So 
she  makes  plans,  and  Colonel  Mordaunt  backs 


26 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


>ii 


them,  until  tlic  two  are  constant  companions. 
In  a  few  days  he  seems  to  have  no  aim  or  desire 
except  to  please  her ;  while  she  goes  blindly  on, 
expressing  genuine  surprise  at  each  fresh  token 
of  his  generosity. 

One  day  she  buys  a  huge  bouquet,  whieh  he 
has  to  carry  home,  and  tells  him  that  she  dotes 
on  flowers. 

The  next,  a  basket  of  the  rarest  specimens 
that  Brussels  can  produce  lies  on  her  table,  with 
her  cousin's  kind  regards. 

"  What  exquisite  flowers  !  "  exclaims  Mrs.  St. 
John.  "  AVhat  a  lot  he  must  have  paid  for  them !  " 
remarks  her  daughter,  quite  iudill'erent  as  to  the 
motive  of  the  offering. 

But  the  next  day  the  offering  is  repeated. 

"  More  flowers  !  "  says  Irene :  ''  what  am  I  lo 
do  with  them  ?  There  arc  no  more  vases,  and 
the  last  arc  too  fresh  to  throw  away." 

On  the  third  day,  a  bouquet  more  beautiful 
than  either  of  the  others  lies  before  her. 

"  Oh  !  this  is  too  bad !  "  she  exclaims,  vexed- 
ly.  "  This  is  sheer  waste  1  I  shall  speak  to 
Colonel  Mordaunt. 

What  does  the  speaking  result  in  ?  An  adju- 
ration that  no  blossoms  can  be  too  fresh  for  one 
who  ifl  fresher  herself  than  any  blossom  that  ever 
grew  in  hot-house  or  in  field,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

"  Stupid  old  fool !  "  is  Irene's  grateful  though, 
unexpressed  rejoinder.      "  The    id""  a  of   taking 
every  thing  I  say  as  gospel !    I  declare  I  will  nev- 
er tell  him  I  like  any  thing  again." 

Yet  she  is  pleased  by  the  man's  attention, 
though  she  hardly  knows  why.  It  soothes  the 
pride  which  has  been  so  sorely  wounded :  it 
makes  her  better  satisfied,  not  with  the  wor'd, 
but  with  herself.  Colonel  Mordaunt  is  not  a  brill- 
iant conversationalist  nor  a  deep  iiiiiiker  ;  he  is 
quite  content  to  follow  her  lead,  and  to  echo  her 
sentiments  ;  but  though  he  gives  her  no  new  ideas, 
he  docs  not  disturb  the  old  ones,  and  she  is  not 
in  a  mood  to  receive  new  impressions.  He  is 
thoughtful,  and  generous,  ami  anxious  to  please. 
He  attends  her,  in  fact,  as  a  servant  attends  his 
mistress,  a  subject  his  queen :  and  all  women, 
however  broken-hearted  they  may  be,  dearly  love 
to  keep  a  retinue  of  slaves.  Irene  likes  it :  she 
is  a  woman  born  to  govern,  who  takes  submission 
to  her  as  a  right.  It  never  strikes  her  that  slaves 
may  dare  to  adore. 

Mrs.  St.  John  receives  Colonel  Mordaunt's  at- 
tentions to  her  daughter  and  herself  with  very 
different  feelings.  She  is  more  than  gratified  by 
them — she  is  flattered.    And  if  she  can  secure 


his  undivided  attention  for  an  hour  or  two,  she 
makes  the  most  of  it  by  thanks  and  confidences, 
One  day  Irene  is  lying  down  upon  her  bed  witli  a 
headache,  as  she  says — with  a  heartache,  as  8l:c' 
might  more  correctly  have  expressed  it — and  Mrs. 
St.  John  has  the  colonel  to  herself.  It  is  a  wariu 
afternoon,  and  the  heat  and  the  agitation  of  tlic 
interview  have  brought  a  roseate  hue  into  the  oM 
lady's  face  whieh  makes  her  look  quite  hanil- 
some. 

"Colonel  Mordaunt — Philip — if  I  may  siill 
call  you  so  —  I  have  a  great  anxiety  upon  niv 
mind." 

"  A  great  anxiety,  my  dear  Mrs.  St.  John  1  if 
it  is  any  thing  in  whieh  I  can  assist  you — " 

"  I  was  sure  you  would  say  so  !  Yes :  I  think 
you  can  help  nie,  or,  at  all  events,  it  will  be  a 
comfort  to  consult  you  on  the  matter.  I  have  so 
few  friends  in  whom  I  can  confide." 

"  Let  me  know  what  distresses  you  at  once.'' 

"  It  is  about  money.  Oh !  what  a  hateful 
subject  it  is.  I  believe  money,  either  the  want 
of  it  or  the  excess  of  it,  to  be  at  the  bottom  of 
almost  every  trouble  in  this  world ;  and,  thougli 
poor  dear  Tom  left  me  very  comfortably  oil', 
yet-" 

"  You  are  in  want  of  it  ?  My  dear  friend, 
every  penny  I  have  is  at  your  disposal  1 " 

"  How  like  you  to  say  so  I  No ;  that  would 
not  help  me.  The  fact  is  I  have  been  spending 
more  than  my  income  since  my  husband's  death 
— intrenching  largely  on  my  principal  —  much 
more  largely  than  I  had  any  idea  of  till  I  received 
my  banker's  book  a  few  weeks  back." 

"  But  I  thought  my  cousin  left  you  so  well  oil'.' 

"  Not  nearly  so  well  as  the  world  imagines. 
He  had  indulged  is  several  private  speeulation.- 
of  late,  and  the  loss  of  them  preyed  on  his  mind 
— sometimes  I  think  it  hastened  bis  death;  I 
know  that  at  the  last  he  was  greatly  troubled  to 
think  lie  could  not  leave  us  in  better  circuin- 
stances." 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  St.  John,  excuse  my  say- 
ing so — considering  it  was  the  case,  how  could 
you  be  so  foolish  as  to  touch  your  principal,  ihc 
only  thing  you  and  your  daughter  had  to  depend 
on?" 

"  Ah !  it  was  foolish,  wasn't  it  ?  but  don't  re- 
proach me;  you  can't  think  Low  bitterly  I  am 
repenting  of  it  now." 

She  lies  back  in  her  chair,  quite  overcome  by 
the  idea,  while  Colonel  Mordaunt  sits  by  her  side, 
silent  and  absorbed. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  St.  John  starts  up  and  clutchea 
his  hand. 


MRS.  ST.  JOHN'S  DEATH. 


21 


an  hour  or  two,  elic 
nks  and  conQdcnccs, 

upon  hur  bud  with  a 
I  a  Lcartacbc,  as  hlic 
xprcsscd  it — .ind  Mis, 
licrself.    It  is  a  wiini, 

tho  agitation  of  tla 
scatc  hue  into  the  old 
icr  loolc  quite  hand. 

Iiilip — if  I  may  si  ill 
rent  anxiety  upon  luv 

ar  Mrs.  St.  John  I  if 
n  aBsist  you — " 
ly  so  I  Yes :  I  thinlc 
events,  it  will  be  a 
e  matter.  I  have  so 
onfide." 

tresses  you  at  once.' 
[)h!  what  a  hateful 
ley,  either  the  want 
le  at  the  bottom  of 
I  world  ;  and,  though 
ery   comfortably  oil', 

t  ?  My  dear  friend, 
ir  disposal ! " 
0  !  No ;  that  would 
have  been  spending 
my  husband's  death 
»y  prineipal  —  much 
idea  of  till  I  received 

s  back." 

left  you  so  well  off.'' 
the  world  imagine.*, 
private  speculation? 
preyed  on  his  mind 
Jtened  his  death;  I 

greatly  troubled  to 
in  better  circum- 

>hn,  excuse  my  say- 

the  case,  how  could 

your  principal,  itic 

ghter  had  to  depend 

I't  it  ?  but  don't  re- 
how  bitterly  I  am 

quite  overcome  by 
unt  sits  by  her  side, 

arts  up  and  clutches 


"  Philip !  Philip !     I  am  dyiug  ;  and  ray  girl 
ill  bo  left  all  but  pennilesn." 

"  Good  God !  it  cannot  bo  a.^  bad  as  that  I 
|ou  inu.st  be  niLstalicn,  Mrs.  St.  John  !  You  arc 
Eak  and  ill,  and  uiatters  look  wor.so  to  you  than 
ley  really  are.  Put  the  mana^cnient  of  your 
irfTairs  into  my  hands,  and  I  v.ill  see  that  they 
M«  sot  r'ght  again." 

'  It  is  beyond  your  powor.  You  cannot  think 
mad  I  have  been.  Whan  Tom  died,  and  I 
ind  it  would  be  impossible  for  us  to  live  in  the 
jrle  to  which  we  had  been  accustomed,  I  thought 
vould  be  better  to  give  Irene  a  season  or  two  in 
in — to  let  her  bo  seen,  in  fact.  Slic  is  so 
l^tty  she  ought  to  have  made  a  good  marriage ; 
tad  I  never  thought  the  money  could  run  away 
aofast  imtil  I  found  it  was  nearly  all  gone." 

"  Hut  who  arc  your  truovces  ?  What  have 
dity  been  about  to  permit  you  to  draw  upon  your 
prijpeipal  in  this  manner?  " 

"  There  arc  no  trustees.  I  am  sole  logatC(j 
•ll(d  exoeutrix.  The  money  was  left  absolutely  '.o 
ntji.  I  wish  now  it  had  not  been  so." 
A.  "  And — and — Irene,"  says  Colonel  Mordauiit, 
MBsently,  "  she  is  not  th;.a  in  a  position  to  make 
we  good  match  you  speak  of  ? " 

§"  Ah !    there's  my  worst  trouble,  Philip !    I 
s  so  sure  she  was  going  to  bo  married — such 
excellent  connection,  too.    I  looked  upon  tho 
Patter  as  settled,  and  then  it  came  to  nothing." 
^-'(Colonel  Mordaunt's  brow  lowers,  and  he  com- 
IMPccs  to  play  with  the  ornaments  on  the  table. 
?  "  And  who  may  the  gentleman  have  been  ?  " 
„:  •'  Well,  I  mustn't  tell  you,  for  my  child's  sake, 
Ifhe  behaved  in  the  most  dishonorable  mannrr 
bcr,  Philip ;  dangled  after  her  all  the  sea.    i, 
eting  her  everywhere,  and  paying  her  the  most 
Jisguised    attention,   and    then,   when  I  felt 
imd  to  ask  him  what  he  intended  by  it  all, 
led  round  and  said  he  had  never  considered 
'  as  any  thing  more  than  a  friend." 
"  The  scoundrel !  "  cries  Colonel  Mordaunt, 
imping  up  from  his  cha'r  and  pacing  the  room, 
jthe  unmitigated  scoundi  el  I    Mrs.  St.  John,  let 
I  have  his  name  and  bring  him  to  book,  as  he 
serves." 

"  Ah !   not  for  worlds.    Irene  would   never 
rgive  me !    You  cannot  think  how  angry  she 
IjiBs  even  at  my  asking  him  the  question." 

"  And  I  suppose  she — she— felt  the  business 
Dry  much  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.  She  assured  me  at  the 
Ime  that  she  was  utterly  indifferent  to  him  ;  but 
1  have  had  my  suspicions  since.  Anyway,  it  has 
iroken  i.iy  heart !    To  hear  my  child  refused  in 


marri.igc  by  a  man  who  had  caused  her  name  to 
bo  so  openly  connected  with  his  own  tliat  it  was 
quite  unlikely  any  one  else  would  come  forward, 
an<l  when  I  had  been  risking  her  dependence  in 
order  to  further  her  prospects  in  life.  I  shall 
never  recover  it,  Philip  ;  that  blow  has  been  tho 
death  of  me." 

"  Why  should  vou  say  so  V  You  arc  not 
really  ill.'"' 

"I  am  sinking  fast,  my  dear  friend;  I  anj 
growing  weaker  every  day  ;  and  very  soon  I  shall 
be  gone,  and  my  Irene  will  have  to  sull'er  for  my 
imprudence.  0  Philip !  for  the  sake  of  old 
times,  promise  me  you  will  befriend  my  girl," 

"For  the  sake  of  both  past  and  present,"  ho 
replies  warmly,  "  trust  to  me.  I  will  do  every 
thing  in  my  power  to  assist  her.  I  am  rich,  as 
doubtless  you  know ;  tho  income  which  poor 
Tom  and  I  equally  inherited  from  our  mothers 
has,  in  my  case,  never  been  fully  used,  for  I  havo 
had  no  one  to  spend  it  on,  and  so  long  as  I  havo 
a  pound  Irene  shall  never  want  one." 

"  Generous  as  of  old.  Ah,  Philip  !  if  I  had  only 
known  what  you  were ;  if  I  had  only  had  tho 
sense — " 

"  My  dear  lady,  what  is  the  use  of  reverting 
to  tho  past  ?  You  acted  as  you  thought  right. 
It  has  all  been  for  the  best." 

"  For  the  best  that  I  should  have  deceived 
one  of  the  noblest  and  most  honorable  of  men  ?  " 

"  llush,  hush  !  not  deceived  ;  you  must  not 
call  it  by  so  harsh  a  term,"  replies  the  colonel, 
with  the  ready  forgiveness  which  wo  find  it  so 
easy  to  accord  to  an  injury  for  which  wc  have 
long  ceased  to  grieve  ;  "  you  arc  too  hard  upon 
yourself.    Remember  how  young  you  were." 

"  I  should  have  been  old  enough  to  recognize 
your  worth,"  replies  the  poor  lady,  who,  like  many 
of  her  fellow-creatures,  has  committed  a  great 
error  on  setting  out  in  life,  and  never  discovered 
her  mistake  until  it  was  past  remedy ;  "  but  it  ia 
something  to  know  that  I  leave  you  Irene's  friend." 

"  You  may  rest  on  that  assurance  with  tho 
greatest  confidence,"  ho  replies,  soothingly,  and 
tells  himself  that  the  past,  when  the  poor  faded 
wreck  of  a  woman  who  lies  before  him  took  back 
the  hand  she  had  promised  to  himself  to  bestow 
it  on  his  cousin,  will  indeed  be  amply  atoned  for 
if  he  can  only  claim  the  friendship  of  the  bright 
creature  who  has  sprung  from  tho  union  w-hich 
went  far  to  make  his  life  a  solitary  one. 

He  really  believes  that  ho  shall  be  satisfied 
with  her  friendship.    So  we  deceive  ourselves. 

Mrs.  St.  John's  conversation  appears  to  bo 


28 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


■  111    >>      1 1> 


Qimost  prophetic;  at  Icnst,  the  state  of  mind 
which  induced  it  naturally  predisposes  lier  to 
succumb  to  illness ;  anil  when,  a  few  days  after, 
she  is  seized  with  a  low  fever  that  is  deeimntinj; 
the  city,  her  weakness  greatly  aggravates  the 
danger. 

A  foreign  doctor  is  called  in ;  he  immediate- 
ly proposes  to  bleed  the  patient;  Irene  flics  in 
her  distress  to  Colonel  Mordaunt. 

"He  will  kill  my  mother;  what  can  I  do  to 
prevent  it  ?     I'ray  help  me." 

She  is  so  lovely  in  her  distress,  with  all 
thought  of  self  vanished,  and  the  tears  standing 
in  her  great  gray  eyes,  that  it  is  as  much  as  he 
can  do  to  answer  her  appeal  rationally. 

"  Be  calm ;  I  will  not  allow  this  Uelgian  ras- 
cal to  touch  her.  I  have  already  telegraphed  to 
London.  Mr.  I'ettingall  will  bo  here  to-mor- 
row." 

"  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  sufficiently  ?  " 

Mr.  Pettingall  arrives  to  time,  and  remains  as 
long  afi  his  professional  duties  will  permit,  but  he 
can  do  nothing.  Mrs.  St.  John  becomes  uncon- 
scious, and  sinks  rapidly.  It  takes  but  a  few 
days  to  accomplit-h  that  in  her  which  a  robust 
body  would  have  been  fighting  against  for  weeks. 
In  a  very  short  time  Irene  is  awakened  to  a 
sense  of  her  mother's  danger,  and  in  a  very  short 
time  after  that  the  danger  is  past — the  illness 
is  past — every  thing  is  past,  indeed,  except  the 
cold,  still  figure  lying  on  the  bed  where  she  had 
watched  life  fade  out  of  it,  and  which  will  be  the 
last  thing  of  all  (save  the  memory  of  a  most  indul- 
gent mother)  to  pass  away  forever. 

Mr.  Pettingall  has  returned  to  London  by  this 
time,  and  Irene  and  Colonel  Mordaunt  are  alone. 
What  would  she  have  done  without  him. 

Mrs.  St.  John  had  left  no  near  relatives  who 
would  care  to  incur  the  expense  of  attending  her 
funeral  or  personally  consoling  her  orphaned 
daughter ;  two  or  three  of  them  receive  letters 
with  an  intimation  of  the  event,  to  which  they 
reply  (after  having  made  more  than  one  copy  of 
their  answer)  in  stereotyped  terms,  interlarded 
with  texts  of  Scripture  and  the  places  where  they 
may  be  found  and  "  made  a  note  of."  But  not 
one  pair  of  arms  is  held  out  across  tbe  British 
Channel  (metaphorically  speaking)  to  enfold  Ireae ; 
not  one  pair  of  eyes  weep  with  her ;  pens  go  and 
tongues  wag,  yet  the  gir}  remains,  save  for  the 
knowledge  of  Colonel  Mordaunt's  help  and  pres- 
ence, alone  in  her  sorrow. 

During  the  remainder  of  that  sad  week  she 
sits  almost  entirely  in  her  mother's  room ;  confi- 
dent, though  he  has  not  told  her  bo,  that  every 


thing  that  should  be  done  is  being  done  by  tl,c 
man  who  has  expres'scd  himself  po  kindly  towarj 
her ;  and  when,  on  the  day  of  the  funeral,  s!ie 
meets  him  again,  she  feels  as  though  he  were  litr 
only  friend. 

When  the  interment  is  over  and  they  hnv, 
returned  to  the  hotel.  Colonel  Mordaunt  remaik- 
how  pale  and  worn  the  girl  has  liecome,  and  vin. 
tures  to  ask  what  care  thv  has  been  taking  of 
her  own  health. 

"My  health!    oh,  what  docs  that  signify? 
says  Irene,  as  the  tears  well  up  freshly  to  he; 
swollen  eyelids.     "  There  is  nothing  left  for  nu 
to  live  for  now." 

She  has  borne  up  bravely  until  to-day,  for  slit 
is  no  weak  creature  to  render  herself  sodden  by 
tears  that  cannot  undo  the  past ;  she  is  a  womni. 
made  for  action  rather  than  regret ;  but  the  hard- 
est moment  in  life  for  self-control  is  that  in  whid 
we  return  to  an  emptied  home,  having  left  all  that 
remains  of  what  we  loved  beneath  the  ground. 
The  voice  that  made  our  hearts  rejoice  was  silent ; 
the  loving  eyes  beamed  on  us  no  longer;  the 
warm,  firm  hand  was  cold  and  claspless ;  yet,  wc 
could  see  and  touch  them.  God  only  know; 
what  joy  and  strength  there  comes  from  contact 
— and  how  hard  faith  is  without  sight.  AVe  look 
on  what  we  love,  and  though  we  have  hod  evidence 
of  its  estrangement,  still  delude  ourselves  witli 
the  sweet  falsehood  that  it  is  as  it  ever  was :  v: 
lose  si^ht  of  it,  and,  though  it  be  strong  as  death 
and  faithful  as  the  grave,  cold  doubts  will  rise  be- 
tween it  and  ourselves  to  torture  us  until  we 
meet  again. 

It  is  well  the  dead  are  burled  out  of  sight ; 
else  would  they  never  be  forgotten.  Human  love 
cannot  live  forever,  unless  it  sees  and  touches. 
So  Irene  feels  for  the  nrst  time  that  she  has  really 
lost  her  mother. 

But  Colonel  Mordaunt  has  lived  longer  in  this 
world  than  she  has,  and  his  "  all "  still  stands 
before  him,  more  engaging  than  ever,  in  her  deep 
mourning  and  distress. 

"  You  must  not  say  so,"  he  answers,  gentlj, 
"  You  must  let  me  take  care  of  you  now ;  it  was 
a  promise  made  to  your  poor  mother." 

"  Ah  I  Mother,  mother ! " 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  feel  for  you  more  than  I  can 
express,  but  I  entreat  you  not  to  give  way.  Think 
how  distressed  she  would  be  to  see  you  neglect- 
ing the  health  she  was  always  so  anxious  to  pre- 
serve. I  hear  that  you  have  made  no  regular 
meals  for  a  week  past.  This  must  continue  co 
longer ;  you  must  permit  me  to  alter  it." 

"  I  will  permit  you  to  do  any  thing  that  you 


TUE  COLONEL'S  PROPOSAL. 


29 


is  being  done  by  the 
iSflf  FO  kindly  towarj 
y  of  tlic  funeral,  sht 
IS  though  ho  were  lior 

over  nnd  they  liav, 
cl  Mordaunt  remaik- 
lias  I)ec3me,  and  ven- 

has  been  taking  of 

does  that  signify?' 

L'll  up  freshly  to  Lc; 

nothing  left  for  nu 

y  until  today,  for  bIk 
er  herself  sodden  by 
)ast ;  she  ia  a  womai. 
regret ;  but  the  hard. 
iiitrol  Is  that  in  whid 
ne,  having  left  all  that 
beneath  the  ground, 
rts  rejoice  was  silent ; 
I  us  no  longer;  tin 
id  elaspless ;  yet,  we 
God  only  know; 
I  comes  from  contact 
lout  sight.  We  looli 
wc  have  had  evidence 
jlude  ourselves  witli 
3  as  it  ever  was  :  wc 
it  be  strong  as  death 
doubts  will  rise  be- 
lorture  us   until  we 

buried  out  of  sight ; 
;ottcn.  Human  love 
t  sees  and  touches, 
le  that  she  has  really 

i  lived  longer  In  this 
s  "  all "  still  standi 
an  ever,  in  her  deep 

be  answers,  gently, 
of  you  now  ;  it  was  , 
mother." 

ou  more  than  I  can 
to  give  way.  Think 
to  see  you  neglect- 
so  anxious  to  prc- 
0  mado  no  regular 
must  continue  no 
o  alter  it." 
ny  thing  that  you 


ink  right,  Colonel  Mordaunt.     I  have  no  friend 
|rt  but  yourself." 

*'  Tlieu  I  shall  order  dinner  to  bo  .-erved  for 
1  in  your  sitting-room,  and  cxpi'Ct  you  to  do  the 
lors  of  the  table." 

"Since  you  wish  it,  I  will  try  to  do  so." 
"  I  do  wish  it,  my  dear  cousin,  for  more 
sons  than  one.  Mr.  Wuliiisley,  your  mother's 
Solicitor,  will  be  here  to-moriow;  and  it  is  q-ite 
BMc.->sary  that  I  should  have  a  little  converstitiou 
tijlh  you  before  you  meet  him." 
,^  "  When  the  dinner  is  ready  I  shall  be  there." 
\i^"  And  in  another  hour  Colonel  Mordaunt  and 
J^ine  St.  John  arc  seated  oppos'te  to  one  another 
tt  table.  Her  eyes  are  still  red,  \  cr  checks  pale, 
and  she  neither  cats  nor  talks  muc'i ;  but  she  is 
quiet  and  composed,  and  listens  to  all  her  couc!" 
bas  to  say  with  interest  and  attenti(-n.  He  docs 
not  broach  the  subject  of  money,  however,  until 
tb^  dinner  has  been  cleared  away  again,  and  they 
•!•  safe  from  the  waiters'  supervision. 

Then  Irene  draws  her  chair  nearer  to  the  open 

fe,  for  November  has  set  in  bright  and  cold  ; 
Colonel  Mordaunt,  still  playing  with  his  fruit 
wine,  commences  the  unwelcome  topic. 
^  fj "  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  my  dear 
le,  lo.-*3  pleasant  than  important;  but  money 
sidcrations  are  generally  so.  Have  you  any 
kjtia  of  the  amount  of  your  mother's  income." 

"  My  mother's  income  ?  Not  the  least.  But 
it  Ifas  a  largo  one,  was  it  not  ?  We  always  lived 
«0  '♦rell  in  London." 

•'  Too  well,  I  am  afraid,  my  di;ar.    Women  are 
Mflly  ignorant  about  the  management  of  money." 
I"  Yes ;  I  am  sure  I  am,"  she  replies,  indiffer- 
Py.     "  In  fact,  it  never  entered  my  head  to 
ke  any  inquiries  on  the  subject.     We  had  a 
|8c  in  Brook  Street,  you  know,  and  our  own 
riage,  and  every  thing  wo  could  desire.      I 
irer  remember  poor  mamma  refusing  me  money 
|iny  life,  or  expressing  the  slightest  anxiety  on 
( subject." 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  she  had  done 

my  dear.    I  had  a  long  talk  with  her  about 

affairs  a  week  or  two  before  her  death ;  and 

I  was  anxious  that  I  should  look  into  and  ar- 

Bge  them  for  her.    Your  father  did  not  leave 

rif  much  behind  him  as  the  world  thinks ;  and 

tur  poor  mother  was  improvident  of  the  little 
e  received.    I  am  afroid,  from  what  she  told 
«e,  that  a  large  portion  of  her  principal  was 
(ink  during  those  two  seasons  in  tov.n." 

"  Was   it  ?     Well,  it  will  signify  little  now. 
iatever  remains,  there  is  sure  to  be  enough  for 
»e." 


"  .My  dear  child,  I  am  not  .xo  sure  of  that. 
You  huvc  been  brought  up  in  eviiy  luxury  ;  you 
liuvc  never  known,  as  you  said  just  now,  what  it  ia 
to  be  dcnieil." 

"  I  can  loam  it.  Others  have  done  the  same 
before  mc." 

"  Btt  supposing  the  very  wnr.st — that  you 
liavo  actually  not  enough  to  live  on.  Wliat 
then  ?  " 

"  That  is  scarcely  pro'juble,  ia  it  ?  llut  if  so, 
I  can  work." 

"  Work,  child !  Yon  work  to  earn  your  liv- 
ing ?  No,  no ;  it  would  ncvc-  «omo  to  that ; 
you  are  far  too  beautiful.  You  must  marry 
first." 

"  What !  marry  for  a  home  ?  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt, you  do  not  know  me,  if  you  think  me  ca- 
pable of  doing  such  a  thing." 

"  Why  not  ?     Hundreds  of  women  do  it." 

"Hundreds  of  women  sell  themselvea,  you 
mean.    Well,  I  am  not  for  sale." 

"  You  call  it  by  too  harsh  a  term,  Irene.  I 
did  not  intend  that  you  should  marry  ani/  one  in 
order  to  obtain  me.ins  of  support ;  but  that,  if  an 
eligible  offer  should  present  itself  from  some  man 
whom  you  could  respect,  even  if  he  doea  not 
exactly  come  up  to  the  standard  you  may  have 
erected  in  your  imagination — " 

She  interrupts  him  quickly. 

"  What  standard  ?  What  are  you  talking  off 
— what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  was  only  talking  generally,  my  dear. 
Young  ladies  always  have  an  ideal." 

"  I  am  not  a  young  lady,  then ;  I  have  none." 

"  You  have  never  yet  known,  perhaps,  what 
it  is  to  bo  what  is  called  '  in  love,'  "  he  continues, 
searchingly. 

She  colors,  and  looks  annoyed. 

"  Colonel  Mordaunt,  I  thought  you  too  old  and 
wise  to  care  to  discuss  such  nonsense.  Anyway, 
I  do  not  care  to  discuss  it  with  you,  especially  to- 
day. Let  me  leave  you  for  the  present,  and,  when 
Mr.  Walmsley  arrives,  you  will  send  and  let  me 
know." 

She  is  going  then,  but  he  stops  her. 

"  Don't  be  offended  with  me,  my  dear  Irene." 

"  Offended  ?  Oh,  no  1 "  returning  to  place  her 
hands  in  his.  "  How  could  I  be,  after  all  your 
great  kindness  to  me  and — to  her  ?  I  look  upon 
you  as  a  father,  indeed  I  do,  and  could  not  feel  of- 
fended at  any  thing  which  you  might  please  to 
say  to  me," 

As  she  leaves  him  he  sighs. 

There  is  some  little  delay  in  the  solicitor's  ap- 
pearance, during  which  time  Colonel  Morjdaunt's 


30 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


'If 

•    ^1 


h 


<\  ■' 


1 

,     .'I 

W  ''i 

4 

1 

4 

t_. 

i.,fe 

4'  :>-■■ 

i'l 


1:11 


attenfion.-f  to  h'a  y<jiiii^  cou'^in  aix"  n^  doferuntiiil 
aa  they  arc  devoted.  Then  eomes  Mr.  Wttlmnley 
and  hisi  bundle  of  papers,  l)y  whkh  his*  worst 
feiuij  for  Irei.e'ft  hiconie  arc  realized;  for  when 
tho  various  debtB  arc  dUpoaed  of  and  tho  ac- 
counts made  up,  'hree  or  four  thousand  roundi;  in 
all  the  balance  kfi  'n  the  banker's  hands, 

"  You  cannot  live  on  it ;  it  will  be  sheer  beg- 
gary," says  Colonel  .Mordnunt,  as  ho  discloses  the 
fact  to  her, 

"It  will  do  very  well.  Miiny  have  less,"  is 
the  indifl'ercnt  answer. 

"Irene,  you  do  not  know  what  you  arc  talking 
about.  You  have  always  been  clothed  and  fed 
and  tended  like  a  gentlewoman  ;  and  the  interest 
of  this  money  will  barely  sudieo  to  provide  you 
with  the  necessaries  of  life.  It  is  madness  to 
imagine  that  you  will  be  able  to  live  upon  it." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  then  ?  "  she  says,  inno- 
cently, as  she  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and 
loo'.s  up  into  his  face.  "  If  I  have  no  more,  it 
must  bo  enough.     No  arguments  can  double  it." 

"  What  are  you  to  do  ?  0  Irene  !  if  I  might 
tell  you — if  I  only  JarcJ  to  tell  you  tho  moans  by 
which,  if  you  so  will  it,  you  may  be  placed  at 
once  in  the  position  which  befits  your  birth  and 
station,  and  far  above  the  paltry  necessity  of  ever 
again  considering  how  you  are  to  do  any  thing 
which  money  can  do  for  you." 

"Colonel  Mordaunt!"  she  crie?,  shrinking 
from  him. 

She  does  not  profess  to  misunderstand  his 
meaning,  for  it  is  glowing  in  his  eyes,  and  trem- 
bling in  his  accents,  and  lighting  up  his  handsome, 
middle-aged  face,  until  it  looks  ton  yenrs  younger 
than  it  did  before ;  and  Irene  is  too  time  a  woman 
to  stoop  to  flatter  her  own  vanity  by  playing  on 
his  feelings.  There  arc  many  of  her  sex  who  pre- 
tend they  cannot  tell  when  a  man  is  in  love 
with  them.  They  arc  cither  fools  or  hypocrites. 
Irene  is  neither.  She  sees  too  plainly,  though  for 
the  first  time,  that  the  affection  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt bears  for  her  is  not  all  cousinly,  and  her 
natural  impulse  is  to  shrink  away.  He  perceives 
the  action,  and  it  goada  him  on. 

"  You  shrink  from  mc  ;  you  think,  because  I 
am  old  enough  to  be  your  father,  that  therefore  I 
am  too  old  to  love  you.  Irene !  no  boy  that  you 
have  ever  met  has  it  in  his  power  to  conceive  so 
deep  a  passion  as  that  with  which  you  have  in- 
spired mc,  I  am  aware  that  I  cannot  expect  an 
answering  feeling  on  your  part — that  for  you  I 
am  only  a  middle-aged,  gray-haired  man ;  but 
give  me  the  right  to  cherish  you,  and  I  shall  have 
all  that  I  desire.    You  arc  alone ;  lot  ine  protect 


you :  friendless ;  let  mo  take  my  jdaee  by  your 
side:  poor;  oh,  my  darling!  with  what  pride  and 
pleasure  should  I  pour  out  tny  riches  at  your  feet, 
if  you  will  but  accept  tliem  at  my  hands  !" 

"  0  Colonel  M(jrdauiit !  you  frighten  me,  I 
never  dreamed  (if  this.     I'ray,  let  mo  go." 

"  Not  till  I  have  told  you  all.  Irene,  I  know 
your  secret.  I  know  that  you  have  loved,  and 
been  disappointed." 

She  reddens  now — reddens  like  ?  peony — and 
more  from  anger  than  from  shame. 

"  What  right  have  you  to  say  so  ?  Lo  you 
want  to  insult  me?  " 

"  Is  it  a  sin,  then,  of  which  I  accuse  you  ? 
My  dear  child,  when  you  have  conic  to  my  age, 
you  will  have  seen  so  much  of  this  world's  wick- 
edness and  trouble,  tliut  a  girlish  disappointment 
will  appear  a  very  ordinary  affair  to  you." 

"  Will  it  ?  "  she  answers,  Ihoughtfullj-,  with 
her  eyes  cast  on  the  ground.  "  And  yet  I  feel 
as  though  no  sorrow  could  touch  mc  in  this  life 
again." 

"  But  poverty  and  solitude,  and  all  the  minor 
evils  orising  from  them,  will  oggravate  your 
trouble,  and  make  you  feel  it  more.  Irene,  you 
have  acknowledged  that  I  am  correct.  Now  that 
I  know  tho  worst,  let  mc  renew  the  offer  I  have 
just  made  you — let  me  save  you  from  yourself," 

"  Oh,  no !  you  could  not  do  it,  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt, I  feel  your  kindness — your  generosity — 
indeed  I  do ;  but  I  could  not  marry  you,  even  to 
escape  worse  misfortunes  than  those  you  have 
alluded  to." 

"  I  am,  then,  odious  to  you  ? "  he  says,  mourn- 
fully. 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  an  affection  for  you. 
No,  do  not  misunderstand  my  meaning.  I  feel 
most  kindly  toward  you  for  the  sake  of  what  you 
have  done  for  my  dear  mother  and  myself — how 
could  I  do  otherwise  ? — too  kindly,  indeed,  to 
take  advantage  of  the  noble  offer  you  have  made 
mc." 

"Leave  mc  to  judge  of  that,  Irene.  You 
would  cancel  the  debt  a  thousand  times  over  by 
the  present  of  yourself." 

"  No,  it  is  impossible.  You  must  not  deceive 
yourself,  0  Colonel  Mordaunt!  do  not  look  so 
grieved  about  it.  For  your  sake,  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  never  told  to  any  mortal  yet ;  though,  from 
what  you  aay,  my  dear  mother  must  have  guesaed 
the  truth.  I  have  loved,  deeply,  irretrievably, 
and  in  vain.  This  is  a  grief  which  would  have 
wellnigh  gone  to  break  my  heart,  had  not  care 
for  her  prevented  my  indulging  in  it ;  and,  aince 
the  ncccsssity  for  restraint  has  been  withdrawn, 


FEX  COURT. 


jilacc  )»y  your 
ivhat  pride  and 
va  at  your  feet, 
liands ! " 
•iglitcn  IMC.  I 
no  go." 
Irene,  I  know 
ive  loved,  and 

'  ?  peony — and 

80  ?    Ijo  yon 

I  accuse  you  ? 
ino  to  my  npc, 
1  world's  wick- 
li^^.tppointment 

0  yon." 
ughtfully,  with 
And  yet  I  feel 
no  in  this  life 

1  all  the  minor 
ggravato  your 
PC.  Irene,  you 
cct.  Now  that 
he  offer  I  have 
•ora  yourself." 
t,  Colonel  Mor- 

gcncrosity — 
y  you,  even  to 
lOse  you  have 


ection  for  you. 
aning.  I  feel 
c  of  what  you 
myself — how 
lly,  indeed,  to 
ou  have  made 

Irene.     You 
times  over  by 

ist  not  deceive 

0  not  look  80 

1  will  tell  you 
;  though,  from 
t  have  guessed 

irretrievably, 

;h  would  have 

had  not  care 

it ;  and,  eince 

en  withdrawn, 


I  feel  it  press  mc  down  so  hardly,  that  I  have  no 
strength  left  to  cope  with  it— or  myself." 

And  as  she  finishes  the  confession,  Irene  jinks 
down  into  the  nearest  chair,  and  covers  her  Inirn- 
ing  face  with  her  hands.  Colonel  Mordaunt 
knecU  beside  her. 

'  My  dear  girl !  hiTC  I  not  already  said  that 
this  fact  is  no  imp  'iment?  I  did  not  expect  to 
cLiira  all  your  heart,  Irene — at  least,  at  first.  15c 
my  wife,  and  I  will  teach  you  to  forget  this  sor- 
ro'w." 

"  Oh,  never  !  You  do  not  know  what  you  arc 
spciklng  of.  You  would  come  to  curse  the  day 
on  which  I  took  vou  at  your  word.  Dear  cousin," 
raising  her  eyes,  and  placing  her  hand  upon  Ids 
shoulder,  "  bo  contented  with  such  affection  ns  I 
can  give  you.  I  love  you  now  ;  in  any  other  re- 
lation I  might — hate  you." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  rises  to  his  feet  testily. 

"Then  you  arc  determined  to  waste  your 
youth  dreaming  of  a  man  who  rtjected  your  hand : 
to  let  all  the  world  (himself  included)  see  that  you 
are  wearing  the  willow  for  a  fellow  who  is  not 
worthy  of  your  lightest  thought:  who  had  no 
consideration  for  you  or  your  good  name,  and  in- 
sulted your  poor  mother  when  she  told  him  so  ? 
— a  proper  lover,  indeed,  for  a  woman  like  your- 
self to  renounce  the  world  for — a  pitiful  scoundrel 
who  is  probably  laughing  in  his  sleeve  at  the 
raortiflcation  ho  has  caused  you." 

lie  has  stung  her  hardly  there  ;  and  he  meant 
so  to  sting  her.  She  stands  up  and  confronts 
him,  tearless  and  majestic. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  so  wound  me. 
I  don't  know  what  I  have  done  to  deserve  it,  un- 
less it  is  the  fit  reward  for  ray  folly  in  confiding 
in  you.  I  wish  I  had  bitten  out  my  tongue  be- 
fore I  had  told  you  any  thing  ;  but,  if  you  are  a 
gentleman,  do  not  make  me  more  angry  than  I 
am,  by  alluding  to  it  again." 

"  0  Irene !  forgive  me ;  it  was  the  strength  of 
my  love  that  induced  mc  to  bo  cruel.  Only  give 
mc  hope — say  that  at  some  future  time,  when  you 
have  somewhat  recovered  from  this  disappoint- 
ment, perhaps,  you  will  think  of  what  I  have  told 
you,  and  I  will  try  to  be  contented." 

"It  would  bo  madness  to  give  hope  where 
there  is  none.  Besides,  such  affairs  as  these,  it 
is  indelicate  to  discuss  them  so  soon  after  my 
mother's  death." 

"  She  would  not  say  so.  She  died  happy  in 
the  belief  that  I  should  befriend  you.  Say  that, 
by-and-by — in  a  few  months*  time — I  may  ask 
you  again." 

"If  you  do,  my  answer  can  only  be  the  same ; 


81 


I  have  no  heart  left  to  give  any  ono,  ('oli)nol  S" 
daunt." 

"Nevermind  the  heart!  (live  nio  yourself 
Irene,  say  that  I  may  ask  you  again,  in  a  month's 
time." 

"  A  month  ?  oli,  no  !  A  month  can  make  no 
difference." 

"  In  three  months,  then.  It  is  a  longer  period 
than  you  anticipate.  Give  mo  my  answer  three 
months  hence." 

"  Oil,  why  will  you  torture  mo  .-^o !  I  shall 
never  change  my  minil !  " 

"  Child,  I  know  better!  I  know  that  at  least 
there  is  a  chance ;  and  I  cannot  afford  to  throw 
the  smallest  chance  away.  I  will  speak  to  you 
again  in  three  months." 

"Xo — not  in  three  :  in  si.x.  If  I  mmt  repeat 
what  I  have  said  to-day,  I  will  repeat  it  after  six 
niontlis'  deliberation.  Tlien  you  will  know  tliui, 
I  am  in  earnest." 

"  You  shall  be  in  earnest  before  the  time 
arrives.  Irene !  I  am  another  man  j  you  have 
given  me  hope  ! " 

"  A  very  slight  one." 

"  It  is  enough  to  cling  to.  Ah,  my  darling  ! 
you  must  not  think,  because  I  am  older  than 
yourself,  that  I  shall  worry  or  fidget  you.  I  am 
younger  in  heart  than  in  years,  Irene  ;  and  love 
for  you  has  made  rao  feel  u  boy  again.  Only  be 
mine,  and  I  will  devote  my  life  to  making  yours 
happy.  And  now  let  us  talk  of  yourself.  You 
have  refused  to  come  to  Fen  Court :  what  do 
you  intend  to  do  ?  " 

There  had  been  a  propo.^al,  after  Mrs.  St. 
John's  death,  that  Irene  should  go  and  stay  at 
Colonel  Mordaunt's  house.  Fen  Court,  which  is 
presided  over  by  his  sister,  Miss  Isabella  Mor- 
daunt ;  and  the  girl,  before  she  guessed  at  the 
nature  of  her  cousin's  affection  for  her,  had  half 
agreed  to  do  so ;  but  now  she  shrinks  irom  the 
idea  as  a  lamb  might  shrink  from  going  to  picnic 
in  a  lion's  den ;  and  it  has  become  necessary  to 
think  of  some  other  residence  for  her. 

"  I  shall  accept  the  offer  of  my  aunt,  Mrs. 
Cavendish,  to  go  and  stay  a  few  weeks  at  Nor- 
wood. Perhaps  I  may  make  some  arrangement 
about  living  with  her.  I  have  thought  of  noth- 
ing  yet." 

"But  why  choose  Mrs.  Cavendish,  with  her 
heap  of  children,  in  that  dull  suburban  house  ?  It 
is  so  unlike  what  you  have  been  accustomed  to ; 
you  will  bo  bored  out  of  your  life.  I  should 
have  thought  your  other  aunt,  Mrs.  CampJ^ell, 
with  that  nice  little  place  in  Clarges  Street,  would 
have  been  a  far  more  suitable  chaperon  for  you." 


,j.t^tiii 


r 


"NO  INTENTIONS.' 


'\K 


g>'\ 


V'  Chnix-i'dii !  wliat  do  I  want  with  acbapuron  y 
Po  you  8\i|)poHo  I  uiii  );i)iiiK  to  run  ubout  to  tliu- 
atrcS  and  partka  bi't'oru  I  luivu  cliun^i'd  my  Mist 
niouminK?  Dcsidefl,  I  liuto  London.  I  ohall 
not  mind  tho  dull.u-ss  of  Norwood  ;  it  will  bo  in 
uccordonco  with  my  IVilingH." 

"Ah,  my  dcur ;  you'ru  vury  younj?.  Tun 
more  ycnrs  in  this  world  will  tcuch  you  to  try  idl 
you  cun  to  dLspursc  a  griof,  iuHtcnd  of  Hitting 
down  to  nurso  it,  But  I  Bupposo  you  must  have 
your  own  way — at  least  for  six  months,"  with  a 
■ly  glance  that  has  no  ))owcr  to  make  Irene  smile. 
"When  will  you  start?" 

"  As  soon  as  possible.  I  want  to  get  out  of 
this  miserable  city  as  ({uickly  as  I  can,  Cun  we 
go  to-morrow? " 

"  Well — with  a  little  energy,  I  dure  say  we 
can.  But  you  arc  not  fit  for  much  exertion.  I 
must  pack  your  things  for  you." 

"  Oh,  DO  I  I  could  not  let  you  do  so.  Bc- 
stdeK,  you  have  your  own." 

"I  shall  do  my  own,  and  yours  too.  If  you 
persist  in  refusing,  tlic  only  thing  is — wo  can't 
go." 

"  But  I  thought  you  had  a  particidar  rngngc- 
racnt  this  afternoon  with  your  old  friend  Conito 
do  Marigny  ? " 

"  My  old  friend  must  give  way  to  my  young 
friend." 

"  IIow  good  you  are  to  mo  1  I  do  not  deserve 
it." 

"  You  deserve  it  all,  and  fur  more  if  I  could 
give  it.  But  it  is  not  all  disinterestedness,  you 
know,  Irene.  I  want  a  heavy  price  for  my  devo- 
tion." 

She  colors,  sighs,  and  turns  away.  In  anoth- 
er couple  of  days  she  is  installed  as  temporary 
inmate  of  her  aunt's  house  at  Norwood. 

» 
How  am  I  to  describe  Fen  Court,  in  Leicester- 
shire ?  And  yet  I  must  try  to  bring  the  place, 
which  will  bo  the  scene  of  so  many  of  the  events 
in  this  history,  clearly  before  the  mind's  eye  of 
my  reader.  The  house  itself,  which  stands  in  the 
village  of  Priestley,  about  ten  miles  from  one  of 
the  prmcipal  county  towns,  is  neither  old  nor 
modem  ;  but  may  have  been  built  in  tho  early 
part  of  the  present  century.  It  is  a  substantial 
white  manor,  not  picturesque  or  romantic  looking 
but  eminently  comfortable — at  least,  from  the 
outside.  It  has  a  bold  porch,  and  large  windows, 
some  of  which  open  to  the  ground :  a  conserva- 
tory on  one  side,  leading  to  a  billiard-room,  and 
a  library  upon  the  other.  It  is  fronted  by  a  thick 
shrubbery,  a  noble  grass-plot,  above  which  droop 


cedur-fcsi,  and  a  broad  drive,  kept  liurd  asiroH' 
To  tie  left  are  the  slubles,  and  the  kennel,  plant- 
ed cut  by  shrubs,  but  elu!to  at  hand;  the  right 
leui'.-t,  by  a  dark,  winding  puth,  to  tho  buck  of  the 
house,  where  a  fine  lawn,  surrounded  by  (lower- 
beds,  slopes  down  toward  a  lake  with  an  artili- 
elul  Island  on  it,  which  is  reached  by  a  rustle 
bridge  ;  beyond  which  lie  the  furm-buildings,  and 
their  ungainly  accessories. 

Ho  far.  Fen  Court  appears  to  bo  all  that  could 
be  desired ;  and  had  been  |iur«'hused  eagerly  by 
Colonel  Mordaunt  on  his  coming  into  liis  money, 
resigning  tho  service,  and  settling  at  home. 

But  tho  inside  of  tho  court  has  one  great  fault 
— it  is,  notwithstanding  tho  sums  which  have 
been  spent  on  its  equipment,  irremediably  ugly 
and  dull.  Tho  house  contains  cvo<-y  comfort, 
having  a  long,  well-stocked  library,  a  vast  diu- 
ing-room,  cheerful  breakfast-parlor,  and  marvel- 
ously  •  furnished  drowlng  •  room.  When  I  suy 
marvelously,  I  do  not  mean  in  marvelous  good 
taste.  Colonel  Mordaunt  has  never  indulged  in 
personal  hobbies  (except  in  tlie  stables  and  hunt- 
ing-field). There  are  pictures  on  tho  wails  of  Fen 
Court,  but  he  seldom  looks  at  them,  and  hardly 
knows  their  painters'  names.  lie  ridicules  the 
idea  of  any  one  caring  for  old  china  and  glass  ; 
has  never  heard  of  bric-d-brac ;  and  calls  a  love 
for  worm-eaten  oak  or  ebony  sheer  folly.  Give 
him  a  well-built  house,  free  from  draughts  and 
smoky  chinmeys ;  let  Druce  or  Maple  furnish  it 
according  to  his  own  taste,  and  the  best  of  his 
ability,  and  bo  could  wish  for  nothing  more. 

And  up  to  a  certain  point  Colonel  Mordaunt 
is  right.  Homo  comforts — good  beds  and  lots 
of  blankets,  spotless  table-linen,  and  very  hot 
plates — are  worth  all  the  Venetian  glass  and 
marqiteltrie  in  the  world,  if  wo  cannot  combine 
the  two.  But  ho  never  tries,  and  never  has  tried 
to  combine  them ;  and  his  sister  Isabella  takes 
no  more  trouble  than  he  docs.  The  stables  of 
Fen  Court  arc  perfect  in  all  their  fittings  and  ar- 
rangements ;  so  are  the  kennels ;  so  are  the 
sleeping,  and  eating,  and  sitting  apartments  of 
the  human  part  of  tho  establishment ;  only  men 
and  women  (some  men  and  women,  that  is  to  say) 
occasionally  feel  the  want  of  more  than  bodily 
comfort. 

Yet  no  one  in  Fen  Court  seems  to  miss  sweet 
sounds,  and  all  tho  pretty,  graceful  nothings  that 
throw  a  nameless  charm  on  the  apartments  pre- 
sided over  by  a  woman  of  taste. 

Miss  Mordaunt  is  decidedly  not  a  woman  of 
taste.  She  is  only  a  poor,  weak-spirited  depend- 
ent  on  her  brother's  will  and  pleasure,  and  the 


MRS.  QUEKETT. 


33 


tyranny  of  Un.  Qiiukett,  tho  huu^tukocpur.  Mr*. 
QiU'kvtt  U  an  uwful  wumun  ;  it  U  »\w  that  vluthei 
tliu:«(!  unliiipp)'  cliiiir^  iiiid  muIua  ia  tliu  ilrawIuK- 
room  III  bi'utvii-liolliwiJ  vnvurri,  .so  lliut  no  onu 
lial  uvor  icon  thtir  blite-satiu  gloriv«  uxpoKcU  to 
cluyli};lit,  mill  dnipoB  thu  vhuiiJulici'.'t  in  gauzy 
IM'tticoaU,  liko  Koiil-bfiitom'  iikin,  ami  piii.H  yol- 
liiw  iiiiiiilin  rouiul  tlio  i>lL'turu-rniiiib!i,  until  tliu 
loom  louku  liko  tlio  buckparlururapulilic-hoiMc, 
or  ibu  iitato  apui'tiiii'Ut  Hct  asiJu  fur  tliu  reception 
of  now  viistomera  in  a  young  ladien'  Beliool. 

It  U  Kebecca  Quekelt  wlio  dueideH  how  mucli 
butter  Hhall  bo  con.sumcd  per  week  at  tho  Court 
l>roakfast  -  tabic,  and  how  much  crciiiu  in  the 
eolTec  after  dinner ;  which  aervanta  ahull  bo  re- 
tniiied,  and  which  discharged;  which  bedrooms 
iiliall  be  used,  and  which  left  tcnantlcsH ;  and  it 
\i  to  Rebecca  Quekctt,  and  not  to  Misa  Mordaunt, 
tliiit  every  one  refers  for  every  thing  that  may  bo 
reipiircd  for  tho  household,  from  a  clean  duster 
up  to  a  new  Brussels  carpet. 

Colonel  Morduunt  even,  p-iramount  among  hi.4 
ilog:4  and  horses  and  hunting-friends,  is  nothing 
iiiiido  Fen  Court ;  and  his  sister  is  L'ss  than 
nothing— she  is  but  an  instrument  in  tho  hands 
of  tho  mo.it  despotic  of  mistresses.  For  what 
tyiMDny  can  exceed  tho  tyranny  of  an  overfed 
and  indulged  menial ;  of  tho  inferior  who,  for 
some  reason  best  known  to  ourselves,  wo  have 
pciinitted  to  climb  above  us ;  of  tho  servant  who, 
being  master  of  our  futnily  secrets,  wo  seem  in 
greater  than  bodily  fear,  lest  ho  or  she  should 
take  advantage  of  the  situation,  by  wielding  ille- 
gal inlluenco  above  our  unhappy  heado  with  a 
satisfaction  that  knows  no  remorse  ? 

But  let  Mrs.  Quekett  speak  for  her.-fclf. 

It  is  January.  Colonel  Mordaunt  has  bc<>n 
home  from  his  Continental  trip  for  more  than  two 
inDnths,  and  tho  hunting-season  still  engrosses 
most  of  his  time  and  thought — at  least,  to  all  ap- 
pearannes. 

Ten  o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  breakfast, 
at  which  several  gentlcmeu  'n  pink  have  dropped 
in  accidentally,  is  over ;  and  the  master  of  the 
hounds,  surrounded  by  hia  pack  of  friends  and 
dogs  and  retainers,  has  ridden  away  down  the 
broad  graveled  drive,  out  into  the  open  country, 
and  Miss  Mordaunt  has  Fen  Court  to  herself. 

She  is  a  woman  of  about  five  -  and  -  forty ; 
not  ill-favored,  but  with  a  contracted  and  attenu- 
ated figure,  and  a  constant  look  of  deprecatory 
fear  upon  her  countenance,  which  go  far  to  make 
I  her  so.  Indeed,  she  is  worse  than  ill-favored, 
for  she  is  uninteresting.  Some  of  the  plainest 
I  women  in  the  world  hare  been  the  most  fascinat- 
8 


iiig.  Miss  Mordaunt  fusuinntes  nu  onu,  exe^l 
with  a  desiru  to  know  why  alio  should  past 
lliruugh  life  with  uii  exprcsnion  u!«  lliongh  ahu 
were  bilently  entreating  every  one  »ilio  inei'ls  not 
tu  kick  hir.  Thu  world  has  not  dealt  harder 
with  her  than  with  inot^t,  but  wlienever  she  has 
been  sinittL'n  on  the  right  cheek,  she  has  so  perti- 
naciously turned  the  lult,  that  her  rellow-crealures 
have  amitten  her  again  out  of  sheer  vice.  Kvery- 
body  knows  what  it  is  to  wi^h  to  kick  a  dog  who 
puts  his  tail  between  his  legs  bct'uru  he  Ima  been 
spoken  to.  Humility  is  Christian  ;  but,  in  u  world 
of  business,  it  doesn't  "  pay.'' 

Miss  .Mordaunt  being  left  alone,  looks  anxious* 
ly  about  the  room,  locks  up  tho  tea  and  sugar  a> 
though  slio  were  coiniuittiiig  a  theft,  pulls  the 
bell — with  tho  faintest  of  tinkles  at  first,  but 
aftcrwanls,  finding  it  is  not  answered,  somewhat 
more  boldly — and,  as  the  aervant  enters,  saya, 
apologetically : 

"  I  think,  James — as  your  master  is  gone,  and 
the  breakfast  is  over — I  think  perlia|)a  you  hud 
better  clear  away." 

"  Very  well,  miss,"  replies  James,  with  stolid 
indiflbrencc,  as  ho  puts  tho  chairti  buck  against 
the  wall,  and  proceeds  to  business. 

Miss  Mordaunt  glances  abo'it  her,  once  or 
twice,  uncertainly,  and  then,  with  a  nervous  grin 
at  James,  who  takes  no  notice  ut  liie  proceeding, 
glides  from  tho  room. 

In  another  second  she  is  back  again. 

"  Is  Quekett — do  you  know,  James — in  the 
kitchen,  or  the  house-keeper's  room  ?  " 

"  I  believe  Mrs.  Quekett  is  not  down-stuirs  at 
all  yet,  miss." 

"Oh,  very  wuU!  it  is  no  matter,  James:  it 
does  not  in  tho  least  signify.  Thank  you, 
James!"  and  Miss  Mordaunt  revanishes. 

Siie  does  not  pass  into  the  garden  nor  enter 
her  own  apartment :  she  goes  straight  up-stairi 
and  knocks  at  tho  door  of  one  of  the  best  bed- 
rooms. 

"  Come  in  ! "  savs  a  voice  that  has  been  so 
used  to  lay  down  the  law  that  it  cannot  speak 
except  authoritatively;  but,  as  Miss  Mordaunt  ap- 
pears, it  attempts  to  modify  its  tone.  "  Oti !  is  it 
you,  miss  ?  Fray  como  in.  Past  ten  o'clock ! 
Well,  I'm  sure  I  bad  no  idea  it  was  so  late." 

Mrs.  Quekett,  clothed  in  a  stuff  dressing-gown 
and  laced  nightcap,  is  seated  by  tho  fire  :  her 
breakfast-tray  is  by  her  sido  and  a  footstool  under 
her  feet ;  nor  does  she  make  tho  least  pretence 
of  riamg  from  her  chair  as  her  so-called  miatresa 
advances  toward  her.  fj, 

The  room  (as  I  have  said  before)  is  one  of  the 


<     ! 


34 


"NO  INTENTIONS" 


II 


m'/^[l 


] : 


•if, 
•''■ll 


rnoft  ooinfortiible  In  Vvn  Coiir(,  ami  la  fiirnl.ihpil 
wltli  iimliof^niiy  nml  Fivncli  <hliit/.  nml  KiiMiT- 
rultiHtcr :  ho  iimcli  of  it  lu'lonxi  to  Diiico,  or 
Mu|il(>,  hut  it  1:4  riirthcr  dvi'nriiteil  in  a  fiiHhion  of 
wliieli  tlioHO  f^i'iitlcint'ti  liiivt  Ix-on  lulto  n'lllt'o^H; 
for  pIftiiioH  haiiR  iiliout  tlio  walN  ;  carved  oakin 
liriukct-),  lioliliti^'  Ht.itiicttcii  ill  cliinn,  All  up  tliu 
rooc-iscs  ;  nml  a  French  clock  and  canil('Ial)ra 
adorn  tiio  manlel-pleco.  I'rcflcntH  from  her  numer- 
ous enijiioyorg — Blight  toatlmonloi^  of  her  worth 

from  the  Duchess  of  H ,  and  my  Laily  C : 

HO  MrH.  Quckett  la  wont  to  deacribo  these  onm- 
menta :  spoila  from  the  various  battlc-flclds 
through  which  ahc  has  fouj^ht  her  way  In  life — so 
an  unprejudiced  observer  wouhl  Kay.  And  on 
either  aiilo  the  mirror  are  diaplaycd  photoRraplis 
in  frames  ;  young  men  and  maidens ;  old  men  and 

children :  "  Dear  Lord  X ,  and  the  Hon.  Kich- 

ard  A ,  and  Lady  Viola."  To  set  Mrs.  Quc- 
kett ctr  on  tlie  subject  of  her  photographs,  la  to 
hear  her  talk  Court  Circular  for  at  least  an 
hour,  and  finitih  with  tho  intelligenoo  that,  with 
t!io  exception  of  hia  poor  dear  father,  sho  has 
never  "bemcancd"  herself  by  living  in  an  un- 
title<l  family  before  Colonel  Mordaunt's. 

Miss  Mordaunt  addresses  her  timidly: 

"  IIow  arc  you  this  morning,  Quekett  ? — is 
your  head  better  V  " 

"Well,  miss,  I  con  hardly  say  before  I  get 
up  and  move  about  a  bit.  It's  very  cold — isn't 
it?" 

"  Bitterly  cold  ;  the  wind  is  due  north." 

"  Ah  I  I  thought  so.  I  don't  think  I  shall 
be  down  just  yet.  Will  you  give  the  cook  direc- 
tions about  the  luncheon.  Miss  Mordaunt  ? — I 
shall  be  in  time  to  see  to  the  dinner." 

"  But  tho  tradesmen  will  want  their  orders, 
Quekett." 

"  Well,  tho  cook  can  come  up  to  mo  for  that. 
I  suppose  the  colonel  won't '  t  home  to  luncheon." 

"I  don't  know — I  can't  say.  I  d' I  ,'t  ask 
him — but  perhaps — I  should  think — " 

"  Oh,  it's  no  good  thinking,  miss.  If  he 
hasn't  left  directions,  he  must  put  up  with  the 
inconvenience.  Were  there  any  gentlemen  to 
breakfast  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Well,  Quekett,  there  were  one  or  two — three 
or  four,  perhaps ;  but  no  one  could  help  it — at 
least,  I  am  sure  Philip  didn't  ask  them ;  for  Mr. 
iBogers  rode  up  just  as  we  sat  down,  and — " 

"  It  could  bo  helped  well  enough,  if  the  colo- 
nd  had  a  grain  of  sense.  A  pack  of  fellows  to 
eat  Mm  out  of  house  and  home,  and  nothing  to 
show  for  It.  I  warrant  they've  cut  my  new  ham 
,4owii-to  the  bone.    And  which  of  'cm  would  give 


the  colonel  a  brrakfuat  before  ho  acta  out  huntin); 
I  ahould  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  O  Quekett  t  I'iilllp  does  din.t  with  then- 
sometimes :  it  was  only  la.H  »veok  ho  received  in- 
vitations from  the  Capels  ami  tho  Stewarts." 

"  And  whut'a  tho  good  of  that  T  Olves  every 
thing,  and  takca  nothing  in  return.  And,  by-tlie. 
way,  is  it  true,  nilsa,  that  there's  talk  obout  Mas. 
ter  Oliver  spending  his  I'aster  hero  again  ?  " 

"  I'm  lure  I  don't  know.  You  hud  better  ask 
IMiilip,  Quekett.  1  have  nothing  to  do  with  Ma-i. 
ter  Oliver.  I  dure  say  it's  a  mistake.  Who  toi'l 
you  about  It  ?  " 

"  Tliat  don't  In  tho  least  signify ;  but  things 
can't  go  on  like  this,  and  so  I  ahall  tell  the  colo- 
nel. There  aro  some  p^'oplo  I  can't  live  in  tlic 
aamo  house  with,  and  Master  Oliver's  one.  And 
it  won't  bo  the  bettor  for  him,  I  expect,  if  I  haye 
to  leave  through  hia  means." 

Miss  Mordaunt  ia  trembling  all  over. 

"  O  Quekett  I  it  will  never  come  to  that.  Vou 
know  how  anxious  Philip  is  to  make  you  com- 
fortable,  or  to  do  any  thing  to  pleaso  you,  that 
— that — is  reasonable." 

"  Reasonable,  Miss  Mordaunt  !  Well,  I'm  not 
likely  to  ask  any  thing  as  is  not  reasonable.  I  was 
fifteen  years  in  the  service  of  tho  colonel's  father, 
and  I  came  to  Fen  Court,  as  every  one  knows, 
much  against  my  own  interests,  and  only  to  pleaso 
those  as  had  a  sort  of  claim  on  me.  And  then  to 
be  told  that  Mr.  PMlip  will  do  any  thing  to  please 
mo  as  \i  luasonable,  is  rather  too  much  to  put  up 
with."  And  hero  Mrs.  Quekett  shows  symptoms 
of  boiling. 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  say  that,  Quckett !  I  dare  say 
my  brother  never  thought  of  having  Master 
Oliver  here ;  and,  if  ho  did,  that  ho  will  put  off 
his  visit  to  a  more  convenient  opportunity." 

"  Well,  I  hope  so,  I'm  sure ;  tor  I've  no  wish  to 
sec  him  hanging  about  here  for  a  month.  And  I 
think,  miss,  that  if  this  is  all  you  have  to  say  to 
me,  perhaps  I'd  better  be  getting  up  and  looking 
after  tho  house-matters  myself;  for  I  don't  sup- 
pose there'll  be  a  bit  left  in  the  larder,  now  thnt 
the  colonel  has  been  feeding  a  pack  of  wolves  at 
breakfast." 

Miss  Mordaunt,  making  no  pretence  of  rcseni- 
mcnt,  flics  as  though  she  had  been  ordered  to  dis- 
appear. 

At  noon,  Mrs.  Quekett  descends  to  the  house- 
keeper's room,  which — by  means  of  furniture 
cribbed  from  other  apartments,  hot  luncheons  and  | 
suppers,  and  friends  to  partake  of  them  whenever 
she  feels  disposed  to  issue  her  invitations — is  as  I 
comfortable  and  convivial  a  retreat  as  any  to  he 


I      :i!i 


I  V 


A   VIRAUO. 


80 


foiitiJ  ill  Fen  Cmrf.  Mri.  Qnokctl,  too,  prcxmtH 
mi  n|)|)ciiniiii'o  (luitu  li>  tti'rindmu'i'  with  llic  pri'- 
Hiding  Uilty  of  B  HorvuntH'  fi-ii^t.  T«ll,  well. 
)i(rnic'(l,  rtu'l  williIrcMiii'd,  wltli  n  dice  llmt  lum  In'iti 
li;itii|-><iini'  mill  a  ooinplrxlon  llmt  U  nut  entirely 
^.'ullllcMH  of  aiil,  si"'  1""1>.'<  fitloil  to  hold  II  lil^'li 
|lll^iti()ll  anions  iiu>nliilH — iiml  kIio  IioMh  It,  a  trilli) 
too  lii^;lily.  lliT  ilomlnmit,  ovi'ihciiriti;?  tcinjier 
ni.ikc*  her  at  onco  fcitrc'l  ami  hiiteil  In  thu  tier- 
vaiit.s'  hull,  ami  each  doiDcstiu  U  ready  to  ubime 
her  bt'liinil  hor  bauk,  and  to  rake  up  old  dead 
scandals  which  nii^^'ht  well  lie  permitted  to  lie  for- 
gotten among  the  imIwh  of  tlic  past.  Am  xhe  enters 
hcrHanetiini,  a  dlnh  of  stewed  kiilney»ond  a  (;':•»!• 
of  Htotit  are  placed  before  her,  with  piinetiiality ; 
liiit  it  is  well,  as  alio  camo  Uown-stairH,  tliat  bIuj 
did  not  hear  tlio  cook  ordering  the  klteheii-niaid 
to  t  ike  in  the  "  cats'  meat"  without  delay.  Some- 
body el.-o  in  the  kitehen  hears  the  remark,  how- 
ever, and  laughs — not  loudly  but  discordantly — 
and  the  !uir.<h  sound  reaches  the  house-keeper's 
ears. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  she  demands,  sharply,  "  Mrs. 
Cray  ?  Tell  her  she  Is  to  como  here  and  speak  to 
me." 


CIIArXKU  IV. 

Mas.  Cii.vv  Is  a  Imrd-fcatured,  angular  woiuan, 
with  rather  a  defiant  cast  of  countenance,  but  she 
obeys  the  summons  to  the  house-keeper's  room 
promptly  enough,  bringing  a  lingo  basket,  the 
emblem  of  her  tr.ide,  which  is  that  of  a  laundress, 
beneath  her  arm. 

"And  pray  what  may  you  lie  doing  in  the 
kitehen  at  this  time  of  day,  Mrs.  Cray  ?  "  com- 
mences Mrs.  Quekctt,  uncovering  the  kidneys. 

"  I'm  doing  what  it  would  bo  well  as  every 
one  did,  mum — minding  my  own  business." 

"  Don't  speak  to  mo  in  that  tone  of  voice. 
You  can't  havo  any  business  hero  on  Tuesday, 
Unless  you  neglected  to  send  the  servants'  things 
home  in  time  again  last  week." 

"Xo,  mum,  I  didn't  neglect  to  send  the  ser- 
vants' things  homo  in  time  again  last  week,"  re- 
plies Mrs.  Cray,  with  insolent  repetition,  "  and 
my  business  here  to-day  is  to  get  the  money  that's 
duo  to  mc ;  and,  if  that  ain't  my  business,  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  what  is.  There's  three  weeks 
owing,  and  I'm  auro  it  can't  be  by  the  colonel's 
wish  that  a  poor,  hard-working  creature  as  I  am 
is  kept  waiting  day  after  day  in  this  manner." 

"  It's  your  own  fault  if  you  are.  I've  told 
you  several  times  that  if  you  want  your  bill  paid, 


Tiiii  muiit  como  up  lii'tut'fti  xrvfii  and  cl^rht  every 
Siitiinl.iy  I  venin;f,  ami  iVti  h  the  money." 

"And  I've  told  you,  mum,  that  I  can't  lio  It ; 
and  if  you  had  six  chlMreii  to  wash  and  put  lo 
bi'd,  liesides  gro>Mi  fioiH  acomiiig  home  for  their 
suppers,  and  tlie  place  to  ruildle  up,  uiid  all  with 
one  pair  of  hands,  you  ouliln't  do  it  neither." 

"What's  your  iiieee  nlioul,  that  she  can't  help 
you  ?  " 

Mis.  day  looks  sulky  directly. 

"  \  hulking  young  Homaii  like  that !"  conlln 
iic^i  the  housc-kec|)er,  with  her  mouth  full  of  toa^t 
and  kidney,  "idling  about  the  village,  nnd  doing 
nothing  to  cam  her  living.  I  am  i|nite  suipriscd 
you  should  put  np  with  it.  Why  don't  nfir  enme 
up  for  the  money  ?  I  suppose  she  cm  read  ninl 
wrl»e  ?  " 

"Oh,  she  can  read  and  writi*  fast  enough — 
belter  than  many  as  thinks  themselves  above  her 
— but  she  can't  come  up  of  Saturdays,  for  a  very 
good  reason — that  she  ain't  here." 

"  Not  here!     Where  is  she  gone  to  f  " 

"  That's  her  business,  mum,  nnd  not  ouis. 
Not  but  what  I'm  put  out  about  it,  I  must  own  ; 
but  she  was  iilwnys  a  o\w  to  have  her  own  way, 
she  was,  and  I  supiioso  it  will  bo  so  to  the 
end." 

"  Ilcr  own  way.  Indeed  ;  anil  a  nice  way  she's 
likely  to  make  of  it,  tramping  about  the  country 
by  herself !  You  (-hoiild  take  bet Ut  care  of  her, 
Mrs.  Cray." 

Now,  Mrs.  Cray,  a  virago  at  homo  and  abroad, 
has  ono  good  quality — sin  can  stick  np  for  her 
own  relations  ;  and  Mrs.  Qiiekett's  remark  upon 
her  niece's  propensity  for  rambling  raises  all  her 
feelings  in  defense  of  the  absent. 

"She's  as  well  able  to  look  after  herself,  my 
niece  is,  as  many  that  wear  silken  gowns  upon 
their  backs — ay,  nnd  better  too. — Take  more  caro 
of  her,  indeed  I  It's  all  very  well  to  give  good 
advice,  but  them  as  preaches  had  better  practise. 
That's  wliot  I  say  I  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  says  Mrs. 
Quckett,  who  knows  so  well  that  the  glass  of  por- 
ter she  is  lifting  to  her  lips  jingles  against  her 
false  teeth. 

"  Well,  If  you  don't  know,  mum,  I  don't  know 
who  should.  Anyways,  I  want  my  three  weeks' 
money,  and  I  stays  here  till  I  gets  it." 

"You  shall  not  have  a  sixpence  until  you 
learn  to  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  to  send  my  Joel  up  to 
talk  to  the  colonel  about  it." 

"  lie  will  not  see  the  colonel  unless  I  give  hiro 
permission.    You're  a  disgrace  to  the  village— 


M 


>■•; 


36 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


^    I 


.    '  'A-^' 


you  and  your  family — aud  the  8ooncr  Priestley  is 
quit  of  tlio  lot  of  you  the  bettor." 

"  Oh,  it's  no  talliing  of  yours,  ir.um,  aa  will 
turn  us  out,  though  you  do  think  yourself  so  much 
above  them  as  wouldn't  stoop  to  cat  with  you. 
There's  easy  ways  for  some  people  to  get  riches 
in  this  w  -Id ;  but  we're  not  thieves  yet,  thank 
God,  nor  sha'n't  begin  to  be,  even  though  there 
are  some  who  would  keep  honest  folks  out  of  the 
money  they've  lawfully  earned." 

Conceive  Mrs.  Quckett's  indignation, 

"  How  dare  you  be  so  insolent  ? "  she  exclaims, 
all  the  blood  in  her  body  rushh.g  to  her  face.  It 
requires  something  more  than  the  assumption  of 
superiority  to  enable  one  to  bear  an  Inferior's  in- 
sult with  dignity.  Mrs.  Quckett  grows  as  red  as 
a  turkey-cock. 

"  Insolent  I "  cries  Mrs.  Cray.  "  Why,  what 
do  you  call  talking  of  my  niece  after  that  fashion, 
then?  Do  you  think  I've  got  no  more  feeling 
for  my  own  flesh  and  blood  than  you  have  your- 
self? " 

"  Mary  ! "  screams  Mrs.  Quokctt  from  the  open 
door,  "  go  up-stairs  at  once  and  fetch  me  the  wash- 
ing-book that  lies  on  the  side-table  in  my  bed- 
room." 

"  Oh,  yes,  your  bedroom,  indeed !  "  continues 
the  infuriated  laundress.  "  I  suppose  you  think 
as  v'c  don't  know  why  you've  got  the  best  one  in 
the  house,  and  not  a  word  said  to  you  about  it. 
You  couldn't  tell  no  tales,  you  couldn't,  about  the 
old  map  as  is  dead  and  gone,  nor  the  young  'un 
as  wears  his  shoes ;  only  you  durs'n't  to,  because 
you're  all  tarred  witli  the  same  brush.  You 
thinks  yourself  a  lady  as  may  call  poor  folks  bad 
names ;  but  the  worst  name  as  you  ever  give  a 
body  would  be  too  good  for  yourself." 

All  of  which  vituperation  is  bawled  into  the 
house-keeper's  ears  by  Mrs.  Cray's  least  dulcet 
tones,  while  Mrs.  Cray's  hard-working  fists  are 
placed  defiantly  upon  her  hipc.  By  the  time 
Mary  returns  with  the  washing-book,  Mrs.  Que- 
kett  is  trembling  all  over. 

"  Take  your  money,  woman,"  she  says,  in  a 
voice  which  fear  has  rendered  wonderfully  mild, 
compared  to  that  of  her  opponent,  "  and  never 
let  mo  see  your  face,  nor  the  faic  of  any  one  that 
belongs  to  you,  again." 

"That's  as  it  may  be,"  retorts  Mrs.  Cray; 
"  and,  anyway,  we're  not  beholden  to  you,  nor 
any  such  dirt,  for  our  living." 

"  You'll  never  get  it  here  again.  Not  a  bit  of 
washing  goes  over  the  threshold  to  your  house 
from  this  time  forward,  and  I'll  dismiss  any  ser- 
vant who  dares  to  disobey  me  1 " 


"  Oh,  you  needn't  fear,  mum,  as  I'll  ask  'em. 
There's  other  washing  in  Leicestershire,  thank 
God  !  besides  the  Court's  ;  and,  as  for  your  own 
rags,  I  wouldn't  touch  'em  if  you  were  to  pay  me 
Ml  gold.  You'll  come  to  want  yourself  before 
long,  and  be  glad  to  wash  other  people's  clothes 
to  earn  your  bread  ;  and  I  wish  I  may  live  to  see 
it !  "  With  which  final  shot,  Mrs.  Cray  pockets 
her  money,  shoulders  her  basket,  and  marches 
out  of  Fen-Court  kitchen. 

This  interview  has  quite  upset  the  house-keep- 
er, who  leaves  more  than  half  her  luncheon  on 
the  table,  and  goes  up-stairs  to  her  bedroom,  in 
order  to  recover  her  equanimity. 

'•'  Serve  her  right,"  is  the  verdict  of  the  kiteli- 
cn,  while  Mary  finishes  the  kidneys  and  porter, 
and  repeats  the  laundress's  compliments  verba- 
tim. 

"I'd  have  given  .sometliing  to  hear  Mother 
Cray  pitch  into  the  old  cat." 

"  Only  hope  it'll  spoil  her  dinner.'' 

"  No  fca.'  nf  that,    Slio'd  eat  if  she  was  dying." 

And  so  on,  and  so  on ;  the  general  feeling  for 
the  house-keeper  being  that  of  detestation. 

It  takes  longer  than  \isual  for  Mrs.  Quckett  to 
calm  her  ruffled  dignity,  for  she  is  unaware  how 
much  the  servants  have  overheard  of  the  discu.-- 
sion  between  her  and  Mrs,  Cray,  nor  how  much 
they  will  believe  of  it.  So  she  remains  up-stairs 
for  more  than  an  hour;  and  when  she  descends 
again  she  has  changed  her  dress  ;  for,  in  a  black- 
satin  gown,  with  a  bio  id  lace  cap  ornamented 
with  pink  flowers,  who  among  the  lower  menials 
would  presume  to  question  either  her  authority 
or  her  virtue  ? 

She  does  not  forget  what  has  passed,  however. 
It  returns  upon  her  every  now  and  then  during 
the  afternoon,  with  an  unpleasant  iLcling  of  inse- 
curity ;  and  when — the  Court  dinner  being  eon- 
eluded — she  makes  her  way  up  to  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt's  private  sitting-room,  she  is  just  in  the  mootl 
to  make  herself  very  disagreeaHe.  The  room 
in  question  is  called  the  study,  though  it  is  very 
little  study  that  is  ever  accomplished  within  its 
walls ;  but  it  is  here  that  the  colonel  usually  sits 
in  the  evening,  smoking  his  pipe,  looking  ovir 
the  stable  and  farm  accounts,  and  holding  inter- 
views with  his  head  groom,  kennel-keeper,  and 
bailiff. 

He  docs  not  seem  over  and  above  pleased  at 
the  abrupt  entrance  of  Mrs,  Quckett ;  but  he 
glances  up  from  his  newspaper  and  nods. 

"  Well,  Quckett !  have  you  any  thing  to  say 
to  me  ?  Time  to  settle  the  house-keeping  billi 
again,  eh  ?  " 


it;''l 


THE  COLONEL  AND  HIS  HOUSEKEEPER. 


87 


s  I'll  ask  'em. 
er^hirc,  thank 
i  for  your  own 
verc  to  pay  me 
rourself  before 
eoplc's  clothes 
nny  live  to  see 
.  Cray  pockets 
,   and  marches 

the  house-keep- 
er luncheon  on 
icr  bedroom,  in 

iet  of  the  kiteli- 
cys  and  porter, 
iplimcnts  verba- 

to  hear  Mother 

ner." 

'  she  was  dyinj;." 
ncral  feeling  for 
testation. 
Mrs.  Quekctt  to 
is  unaware  how 
■d  of  the  discus- 
nor  how  much 
cniains  up-stairs 
;n  she  descends 
;  for,  in  a  black- 
cap  ornamented 
e  lower  menials 
T  her  authority 

assed,  however, 
nd  then  during 
Kcling  of  inso- 
nner  being  eon- 
to  Colonel  Mor- 
just  in  the  mood 
Me.  The  room 
liough  it  is  very 
ished  within  its 
oncl  usually  sits 
looking  over 
d  holding  inter- 
nnel-keeper,  and 

bove  pleased  at 
uekett ;  but  he 
id  nods, 
ny  thing  to  say 
se-keeping  billi 


"  No,  colonel.  If  I  roracmbor  riglitly,  wo  Ret- 
ried those  only  last  week,"  replies  Mrs.  Quekett, 
as  she  quietly  seats  herself  in  the  ch.iir  opposite 
her  master.  "  My  business  hero  is  something 
(luite  difforont.  I  want  to  put  a  question  to  you, 
colonel.  I  want  to  know  if  it's  true  tliat  you've 
asked  Master  Oliver  down  to  Fen  Court  An*  East- 
er this  year?" 

Why,  doesn't  Colonel  Mordaunt  act  as  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  thousand 
would  have  acted  under  similar  circumstances  ? 
Why  doesn't  he  resent  ttio  impertinence  of  tliis 
inquiry  by  the  curt  but  emphatic  remark,  "  What 
the  d — 1  is  that  to  you  ?  " 

lie  is  not  a  timid,  shrinking  creature  like  his 
sister :  he  could  talk  glibly  enough,  and  plead  his 
own  cause  bravely  enough,  when  in  the  presence 
of  Irene  St.  John ;  what  remembrance,  what 
knowledge  is  it  that  comes  over  htm  when  con- 
fronted with  this  menial,  that  ho  should  twist  his 
IMpcr  about  to  hide  his  countenance,  and  answer, 
almost  evasively : 

"  Well,  Quekett,  I  did  think  of  asking  him  ! 
It  would  only  be  for  a  few  days.  There's  no  ob- 
joetiou,  is  there  ?  ' 

"  I  think  there's  a  very  great  objection,  colo- 
nel. Master  Oliver's  not  a  gentleman  as  I  can 
get  on  with  at  all.  The  house  is  not  like  itself 
while  he's  hanging  about  it,  with  his  bad  man- 
ners, and  his  tobaccer,  and  his  drink." 

"  Come,  come.  Quekctt,  I  think  you're  a  lit- 
tle hard  upon  the  boy.  Think  how  young  he  is, 
and  under  what  disadvantages  ha  has  labored ! 
He  is  fond  of  his  pipe  and  his  nonsense,  I  know ; 
but  it  doesn't  go  too  far ;  you'll  allow  that." 

"  I  don't  allow  nothing  of  the  sort,  colonel. 
I  think  Master  Oliver's  *  nonsense,'  as  you  call  it, 
goes  a  great  deal  too  far.  He's  an  ill-mannered, 
impertinent,  puny  upstart — that's  my  opinion — 
as  wants  a  deal  of  bringing  down;  and  he'll  have 
it  one  day,  if  he  provokes  me  too  far ;  for,  as  sure 
as  my  name's  Rebecca  Quekett,  I'll  let  him  know 
that—" 

"  Hush ! "  says  Colonel  Mordaunt,  in  a  pro- 
longed whisper,  as  he  rises  and  examines  the 
door  to  sec  if  it  is  fi?.st  shut.  "Quekett,  my 
giod  creature !  you  forget  how  loud  3-ou  are 
talking." 

"  Oh !  I  don't  forget  it,  colonel.  I've  too 
pood  a  memory  for  that.  And  don't  you  set 
Oliver  on  to  me,  or  I  may  raise  my  voice  a  little 
louder  yet." 

"  I  set  him  on !  How  can  you  think  so  ?  I 
have  never  spoken  to  him  of  you  but  in  terms  of 
the  greatest  respect.     If  I  thought  Oliver  really 


meant  to  be  rude  to  you,'  I  should  be  exceedingly 
angry  with  him.     Hut  it  is  only  his  fun  !  " 

"  Well,  whether  it's  fun  or  earnest,  I  don't 
mean  to  put  up  with  it  any  more,  colonel ;  so,  if 
Oliver  is  to  come  here  next  Easter,  I  shall  turn 
out.  Lady  ISuldwin  willbc  only  too  glad  to  have 
me  for  the  season ;  I  had  a  letter  from  her  on  the 
subject  as  late  as  last  week." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  dreads  the  occasional  visits 
which  Mrs.  Quekctt  pays  to  her  titled  patronesses. 
She  never  leaves  the  Court,  except  in  a  bad  tem- 
per. And  when  Mrs.  Quekctt  is  in  a  bad  temper, 
•she  ii  very  apt  to  be  communicative  on  the  sub- 
ject of  her  fancied  wrongs.  And  tittle-tattle,  for 
many  reasons.  Colonel  Mordaunt  systematically 
discountenances. 

"  You  mustn't  talk  of  that,  Quekett.  What 
s^hould  we  do  without  you  ?  You  are  my  right 
hand '. " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  sir.  I  have  had 
my  suspicions  lately  tbtlMyou're  looking  out  for 
another  sort  of  a  right  hand,  besides  me." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  starts  with  surprise,  and 
colors.  The  house-keeper's  sharp  eyes  detect  his 
agitation. 

"  I'm  not  so  far  wrong,  am  I,  colonel  *  The 
post-bag  can  tell  tales,  though  it  hasn't  a  tongue. 
And  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you'll  let  me  have  the 
truth,  that  I  may  know  how  I  am  expected  to  act." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Quekett  ?  I  do  not  un- 
derstand you." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do,  colonel,  but  I'll  put  it 
plainer,  if  you  like.  Are  you  thinking  of  marry- 
ing  ?  " 

"  Really,  Quekett,  you  are  so — " 

"  Lord  alive,  man  1 "  exclaims  the  house- 
keeper, throwing  off  all  restraint ;  "  you  can't 
pretend  not  to  understand  me  at  your  age.  You 
must  be  thinking  of  it  or  not  thinking  of  it. 
What  do  all  those  letters  to  Miss  St.  John  mean, 
if  you  re  not  courting  her  ?  There's  as  many  as 
three  a  week,  if  there's  one ;  and  when  a  man's 
come  to  your  time  of  life,  he  don't  write  letters 
for  mere  pleasure — " 

"No,  Quekett,  no;  but  business,  you  know — 
business  must  be  attended  to.  And  I  was  left  a 
sort  of  guardian  to  my  young  cousin,  so — " 

"  Fiddle-de-dee  ! "  is  the  sharp  rejoinder. 
"You  can't  stuff  me  up  with  such  nonsense, 
colonel.  Are  you  going  to  marry  this  lady,  or 
not?" 

"  Going  !    No,  certainly  not  going,  Quekett." 

"But  do  you  want  to  marry  her?  Do  you 
mean  to  ask  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  the  thought  has  crossed  my  mind,  I 


•1 


38 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


!■'' 


I" 


I:,,      iil. 


IV    ;r!|'i 


:.    m 


must  say.  Not  but  every  thing  is  very  uncertain, 
of  course — very  uncertain." 

"  Oh  !  "  says  the  housekeeper,  curtly  ;  and  is 
silent. 

"  Quckett,"  resumes  her  master,  after  a  pause, 
"  if  it  should  be,  you  know,  it  coulJ  make  no 
JilTercnce  to  you  ;  could  it?  It  would  bo  rather 
pleasanter,  on  tlic  whole.  Fen  Court  is  a  dull 
place  at  times,  very  dull ;  and  you  and  Isabella 
arc  not  the  best  of  friends.  A  young  lady  would 
brighten  up  the  house,  and  make  it  more  cheer- 
full  for  U3  all.    Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Oh,  muc?'  more  cheerful,  doubtless,"  is  the 
sarcastic  reply.  "And,  pray,  colonel,  may  I 
ask,  in  case  of  this  very  djsirable  event  taking 
place,  what  you  intend  to  do  about  Master 
Oliver  ? " 

"  About  my — nephew  ? " 

"  About  your — nephew  ;  yes.  Is  he  to  bo  al- 
lowed to  spend  his  holidays  at  the  Court,  as 
usual,  upsetting  our  comfort,  and  turning  the 
house  topsy-turvy  ?  " 

"  Well,  I've  hardly  thought  of  that,  Quckett. 
I  suppose  it  would  be  as — as — she  wished." 

"  Oh !  very  well,  colonel.  I  understand  you : 
and  if  Fen  Court  is  to  bo  given  over  to  a  boy  and 
girl  like  that,  why,  the  sooner  I'm  out  of  it  the 
better.  It's  hard  enough  that  I  should  have  to 
look  for  another  home  at  my  time  of  life ;  but  it 
would  be  harder  to  stay  and  have  a  young  mis- 
tress and  master  put  over  my  head.  Fifteen 
years  I  lived  with  your  poor  dear  father,  colonel, 
and  never  a  word  with  any  of  the  family ;  and  when 
I  consented  to  come  here,  it  was  on  the  express 
condition,  as  you  may  well  remember,  that — " 

"  Stay,  Quckett ;  not  so  fast.  I  have  only 
told  you  what  I  contemplated  doing.  Nothing  is 
settled  yet,  nor  likely  to  be ;  and  if  I  thought  it 
would  onnoy ;,  ou,  why,  you  know,  Quckett,  for 
my  father's  sake,  and — and  various  other  rea- 
sons, how  highly  we  all  esteem  your  services; 
and  I  should  be  most  concerned  if  I  thought  any 
thing  would  part  us.  Even  if  I  do  marry,  I  shall 
take  care  that  every  thing  with  respect  to  your- 
self remains  as  it  has  ever  done ;  and  as  for  Mas- 
ter Oliver,  why,  I'll  write  at  once  and  tell  him  it 
is  not  convenient  he  should  come  here  at  Easter. 
He  wished  to  visit  us  this  year ;  but  nothing  is 
of  more  importance  to  me  than  your  comfort,  nor 
should  be,  after  the  long  period  during  which 
you  have  befriended  my  father  and  myself.  Pray 
be  eosy,  Quckett.  Since  you  desire  it,  Master 
OUver  shrll  not  come  to  Fen  Court." 

The  house-keeper  is  pacified ;  she  rises  from 
her  seat  with  a  smile. 


"  Well,  colonel,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  for  the 
best,  both  for  Master  Oliver  and  ourselves.  And 
as  for  your  marriage,  all  I  can  say  is,  I  wish  you 
good  luck  !  'Tisn't  just  what  I  expected ;  but  I 
know  you  too  well  to  believe  you'd  let  any 
thing  come  between  us  after  so  many  years  to- 
gether." 

And  more  than  ever  certain  of  her  power 
over  the  master  of  Fen  Court,  Mrs.  Quckett  bids 
him  a  gracious  good-night,  and  retires  to  her  own 
room. 

AVhcn  the  door  has  closed  behind  her,  Colo- 
nel Mordaunt  turns  the  key,  and,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  delivers  himself  over  to  thought. 
Painful  thought,  apparently  ;  for  more  than  once 
he  takes  out  his  handkerchief,  and  passes  it  over 
his  brow.  He  sits  thus  for  more  than  an  hour, 
and  when  he  rises  to  seek  his  own  apartment, 
his  countenance  is  still  uneasy  and  perturbed. 

"  Poor  Oliver ! "  he  thinks,  as  he  docs  so. 
"  Poor,  unhappy  boy  1  what  can  I  do  to  rectify 
the  errors  of  his  life,  or  put  hope  in  the  future 
for  him  ?  Never  have  I  so  much  felt  my  respon- 
sibility. If  it  were  not  for  Irene,  I  could  ahrost 
— but,  no,  I  cannot  give  up  that  hojio  yet,  -,>•'. 
until  she  crushes  it  without  a  chance  of  revival ; 
and  then,  perhaps — well,  then  I  shall  feel  unhap- 
py and  desperate  enough  to  defy  Old  Nick  him- 
self." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  does  not  say  all  this  rhodo- 
montade:  he  only  thinls  it;  and  if  all  our 
thoughts  were  written  down,  the  world  would 
be  surprised  to  find  how  dramatically  it  talks  to 
itself.  It  is  only  when  we  arc  called  upon  to 
clothe  our  thoughts  with  language  that  vanity 
steps  in  to  make  us  halt  and  stammer.  If  we 
thought  less  of  what  otheis  think  of  us,  and  more 
of  what  we  desire  to  say,  we  should  all  speak 
more  elegantly,  if  not  grammatically.  0  vanity ! 
curse  of  mankind  —  extinguisher  to  bo  many 
noble  purposes ;  how  many  really  brilliant  minds 
stop  short  of  excellency,  si-fled  out  of  all  desire 
for  improvement,  or  idea  of  its  possibility,  by 
your  suffocating  breath !  Why,  even  here  is  a 
platitude  into  which  my  vanity  has  betrayed  me ; 
but  for  the  sake  of  its  moral  I  will  leave  it. 

"  But  why  choose  Mrs.  Cavendish,  with  her 
heap  of  children,  in  that  dull  suburban  house  ? 
You  will  be  bored  out  of  your  life." 

How  often  have  those  words  of  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt retuined,  during  the  last  six  months,  upon 
Irene  St.  John's  mind  I 

How  intolerable  have  the  children,  the  gov- 
erness, the  suburban  society  (the  very  worst  of 


.\.. 


IRE>(ES  MENTAL  COXDITIOX. 


30 


all  society!)  tlio  squabbles,  the  tilllu-tattle,  tliu 
eternal  platitudes,  become  to  her!  Acijuaiiit- 
ances  who  "  drop  ia  "  whenever  they  feel  so  dis- 
posed, and  hear  nothing  new  between  the  ocou- 
sious  of  their  "  dropping  in,"  uio  the  most  ter- 
rible of  all  domestic  scourges;  tiie  celebrated 
dropping  of  a  drop  of  water  ou  the  victim's  head, 
or  King  Solomon's  "droppings"  on  the  window- 
pane,  are  metaphors  which  grow  feeble  in  com- 
parison !  Irritating  to  a  Strong  mind,  what  do 
tliey  not  become  to  that  which  has  been  enfeebled 
by  suffering  ?  And  Irene's  mind,  at  this  junc- 
ture, is  at  its  lowest  ebb.  From  having  gone  as  a 
visitor  to  her  aunt's  house,  she  has  come  to  look 
upon  it  as  her  home ;  for,  after  the  first  few 
weeks,  Mrs.  Cavendish,  pleased  with  her  niece's 
society,  proposed  she  should  take  up  her  resi- 
dence at  Norwood,  paying  her  share  of  the  house- 
hold expenses.  What  else  had  the  girl  to  do? 
What  better  prospect  was  there  in  store  for  her  ? 
Friendless,  alone,  and  half  heart-broken,  it  had 
seemed  at  first  as  though  in  this  widowed  house, 
where  the  most  discordant  sound  that  broke  tlic 
air  was  the  babble  of  the  children's  voices,  she 
had  found  the  refuge  T.-om  the  outer  world  she 
longed  for.  Her  father  and  mother  were  gone. 
Eiic  Keir  was  gone ;  every  thing  she  cared  for  in 
this  life  was  gone.  She  had  but  >.  ne  desire — to 
be  left  in  peace  with  memory — so  Irene  believed 
on  first  returning  from  Brussels  to  England. 
But  such  a  state  of  mind  is  unnatural  to  tho 
young,  and  cannot  last  forever.  By  the  time  wc 
meet  her  again,  she  is  intolerant  of  the  solitude 
and  quiet.  It  does  not  soothe — it  makes  her 
restless  and  unhappy — that  is  because  she  has 
ceased  to  bewail  the  natural  grief.  Ilcaven  takes 
care  of  its  own,  and  with  each  poison  sends  an 
antidote  ;  and  the  unnatural  pain — the  pain  that 
this  world's  injustice  has  forced  upon  her — is 
(>::ce  more  in  the  ascendant,  crusliing  wliat  is 
.':■  ':  y.vl  softest  in  her  nature. 

'  'hore  is  no  more  difficult  task  for  the  pen  than 
lU  'ic  .  libe,  faithfully  and  credibly,  the  interior 
worii.jg  of  a  fellow-creature's  mind;  for  it  is 
only  those  who  have  passed  through  the  phase 
of  feeling  written  of,  that  will  believe  in  it.  And 
yet  it  is  not  necessary  to  draw  from  one's  own 
experience  for  life-pictures.  An  artist  desirous 
to  illustrate  a  scene  of  suffering  and  sorrow,  need 
not  have  suffered  and  have  sorrowed,  but  goes 
boldly  among  the  haunts  where  such  things  are 
(it  is  not  far  to  go)  until  he  finds  them ;  so  must 
the  author,  to  be  realistic,  possess  the  power  to 
read  men's  hearts  and  characters,  to  work  out 
the  mysterious  problem  of  the  lives  and  actions 


that  often  lie  so  wiJtly  severed  —  to  account 
for  tlie  strange  union  of  smiling  lips  and  aching 
hearts — of  the  light  morning  jest  and  the  bitter 
midiiigiit  sobbing. 

There  is  no  more  curious  study  tlian  that  of 
psychology.  Oh  the  wonderful  contradictions ; 
the  painful  inconsistencies ;  tlie  wide,  wide  gulf 
tiiat  is  fixed  between  our  souls  and  the  world  !  It 
is  enough  to  make  one  believe  in  M.  JSowel's 
theory  that  hell  consists  in  bL'ing  made  transpar- 
ent. One  can  scarcely  determine  which  would  bo 
worse — to  have  one's  own  thoughts  laid  bare,  or 
to  see  through  one's  friends. 

Irene  St.  John's  soul  is  a  puzzle,  even  to  her- 
self. Tho  first  dead  weight  of  oppression  that 
followed  her  mother's  burial  lifted  from  her  mind, 
the  blank  sense  of  nothingness  dispersed,  bhe 
wakes  to  find  the  necessity  for  restraint  with- 
drawn, and  (as  she  told  Colonel  Mordaunt)  the 
old  grief  pressing  her  down  so  hardly,  that  she  has 
no  strength  to  cope  with  it. 

Mistress  of  herself,  free  to  think,  and  act,  and 
look  as  her  heart  dictates,  she  has  leisure  to  con- 
template and  dissect  and  analyze  the  haunting 
query,  "  Why  ?  "  Why  did  Erie  Keir  seek  her 
company — why  ask  her  friendship — why  intimate, 
if  not  assert,  that  he  loved  her  ? 

Was  the  fault  on  her  side  ?  Ilad  she  given 
him  too  much  encouragement — been  too  pleased 
to  meet  him — talk  to  him,  answer  the  tender  ques- 
tioning of  his  eyes  ?  Or  had  he  a  design  against 
her  ?  Was  he  really  so  cold-hearted,  so  shallow, 
so  deceitful,  as  to  affect  a  part  to  insure  the  empty 
triumph  of  winning  her — for  nothing.  In  fancy, 
with  glowing  cheek  and  bright  feverish  eyes,  8.ho 
traces  again  and  again  each  scene  in  that  sad  eiii- 
sode  of  her  existence,  until  she  reaches  the  (Cul- 
minating point,  and  hears  once  more  her  mother's 
words,  "  lie  means  nothing  by  it  all ; "  and  the 
glow  dies  out  to  be  replaced  by  pallor. 

And  then  comes  the  last  question  of  the  an- 
guished spirit — the  question  that  rises  to  so  many 
white  lips  every  day,  "  Why  does  Heaven  permit 
such  unnecessary  pain  ?  Is  there  really  a  Father- 
heart  up  there  above,  beating  for  and  with  our 
own  ?  "  I  have  said  that  this  woman  is  no  weak 
creature,  ready  to  sink  to  the  earth  beneath  tho 
first  blow  from  Fate's  mallet. 

Docs  this  phase  of  her  character  belie  the 
assertion  ?  I  think  net.  Strong  bodies  fight  and 
struggle  with  the  disease  imder  which  weak  frames 
succumb,  and  muscular  souls  wrestle  with  and 
writhe  under  an  affliction  which  feeble  souls  may 
suffer  but  not  feel. 

When  Irene  St.  John  had  her  mother  to  sup- 


I 


r 


10 


NO  intentions; 


III, 


III 


'■        Hi 


port  as  well  as  herself,  she  stood  upright  and 
smiled ;  now  that  tho  incentive  for  action  is  with- 
drawn, she  bends  before  tho  tempest.  Then  she 
suffered  more  acutely ;  now  she  suffers  more  con. 
tinuously ;  but  Scute  suffering,  with  intervals  of 
numbness,  is  more  tolerable  than  continuous  pain 
borne  in  monotony.  There  is  nothing  now  to  stir 
Irene  up — to  deaden  the  echo  of  the  question  re- 
verberating against  the  walls  of  her  empty  heart ; 
to  blind  her  eyes  mercifully  to  the  fact  that 
she  has  delivered  herself  over  to  a  love  that  is 
not  mutual;  and  that,  do  all  she  will,  she  can- 
not stamp  tho  accursed  remembrance  from  her 
mind. 

She  knows  all  this ;  it  is  in  black  and  white 
upon  her  soul ;  she  is  lowered,  degraded,  contempt- 
ible in  her  own  eyes,  and  life  becomes  more  Intol- 
erable with  each  rising  sun. 

It  is  May  before  Colonel  Mordaunt  dares  to 
revert  to  the  proposal  he  made  Irene  St.  John  in 
Brussels.  He  has  written  frequently  to  her ;  he 
has  seen  her  more  than  once,  but  there  has  been 
a  quiet  dignity  about  the  girl  which  forbids  him 
to  break  the  compact  entered  on.  He  felt,  with- 
out being  told,  that  to  do  so  would  be  to  mar 
all  his  chances  of  success ;  so  he  has  only  paid 
Mrs.  Cavendish  two  or  three  ordinary  visits,  of- 
fered Irene  two  or  three  ordinary  presents  (which 
she  has  quietly  rejected),  and  tried  to  wait 
patiently  until  the  six  months'  probation  agreed 
upon  should  be  completed.  When  it  is.  Colonel 
Mordaunt  feels  as  free  to  speak  as  he  had  felt 
bound  before  to  hold  his  tongue ;  now  he  knows 
that  he  will  be  listened  to  and  answered.  For 
Irene,  among  many  other  virtues,  has  no  young- 
lady  mannerisms  about  her,  but  is,  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  word,  a  Woman. 

It  is  a  warm,  soft  afternoon  in  the  latter  part 
of  May ;  the  little  garden  at  Norwood  is  full  of 
syringa  and  laburnum  and  lilac  blossoms ;  and  the 
voices  of  the  children  playing  at  hide-and-seek 
among  the  bushes  come  pleasantly  in  at  the 
opened  windows.  Mrs.  Cavendish  has  left  the 
house  to  call  upon  some  friend,  and  Irene  and 
Colonel  Mordaunt  are  alone. 

"  I  hope  you  received  your  dividends  all  right 
this  quarter,"  he  commenced  by  saying ;  for  since 
her  orphanhood  he  has  taken  sole  charge  of  her 
small  income. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  thank  you.  I  sent  your  check  to 
tho  bank,  and  there  was  no  difficulty  about 
the  matter.  Tou  arc  most  punctual  in  your 
payments." 

"  Will  yon  be  as  punctual,  Irene?    You  lave 


not  forgotten,  have  you — what  you  promised  to 
give  me  in  May?" 

The  color  mounts  to  her  pure  pale  face,  but 
she  does  not  turn  it  from  him. 

"  Your  answer !  Oh,  no  1  how  could  I  forget 
it  ?  Only  I  wish — I  wish  you  could  have  guessed 
it,  Colonel  Mordaunt,  without  giving  me  the  nnin 
of  repeating  what  I  said  liefore." 

His  countenance  falls. 

"  Are  your  feelings,  then,  quite  tmcharged  ? 
Have  you  no  kindlier  thoughts  of  me  than  you 
had  then  ?  " 

"  How  could  any  thoughts  be  kindlier  than 
they  have  been,  or  more  grateful  ?  But  kindly 
thoughts  and  gratitude  are — are  not  lore,  Colonel 
Mordaunt." 

"  Then  you  are  not  yet  cured  of  the  old  wound, 
Irene  ? " 

The  girl  leans  her  cheek  against  the  window- 
sill,  and  gazes  with  languid,  heavy  eyes  into  the 
open  space  beyond. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  speak  of  it !  " 

But  he  continues  : 

"  Six  months'  reflection  has  not  had  the  power 
to  convince  you  that  the  most  mortifying  of  all 
enterprises  is  the  attempt  to  regain  our  influence 
over  an  errant  heart." 

"  I  have  never  attempted  to  regain  it,"  she 
exclaims,  indignantly.  "  I  would  not  take  it  were 
it  offered  me.  I  have  done  with  the  name  and 
the  thought  of  the  thing, /o>'«rcr/  " 

She  looks  so  beautiful — so  strangely  as  she 
did  of  old,  with  the  hot,  anp'-y  color  rising  and 
falling  in  her  face,  that  he  is  more  than  ever 
eager  to  win  her  for  himself. 

"Then,  Irene!  what  are  you  waiting  for? 
My  home  is  open  to  you :  why  not  accept  it  ?  I 
am  sure  you  are  not  happy  here." 

"  Oh,  I  am  well  enough  I  The  children  bored 
me  at  first ;  but  I  am  getting  used  to  them,  as  I 
am  to  every  thing  else,"  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  I  cannot  believe  yon,  Irene.  You  who  have 
been  accustomed,  both  during  your  father's  and 
mother's  lifetime,  to  be  feted  and  amused^  and 
carried  hither  and  thither ;  you  cannot  be  content- 
ed to  spend  your  days  in  this  small,  dull  cottage, 
with  no  better  company  than  your  aunt  and  her 
governess,  and  her  overgrown  boys.  It  cannot 
go  on,  my  child ;  it  will  kill  you  !  " 

"  I  am  tougher  than  you  think.  I  wish  that 
I  were  not." 

"  You  are  bearing  up  wonderfully,  but  you  wiil 
break  down  at  last.  Come,  Irene  !  let  me  reason 
with  you  !  You  acknowledged  just  now  that  all 
you  dtsire  is    to    forget   this    disappointment. 


#  "i:^^.'i'.Aiiii**.i''.\i,i,. 


■.L-i>V?:iisi>.:ii-.-L».   .^'V-^'- 


THE   FINAL   APPEAL. 


41 


f  the  old  wound, 


:.    I  wish  ihat 


Why  not  try  to  forget  it  in  my  house  as  well  us 
in  tiiis?" 

Siie  shuildcra — sliglitly — but  he  sees  it. 

"  Colonel  Mordaunt  1  it  is  impossible !  " 

"  I  eivnnot  ace  the  impo.'i.sibility.  I  know  that 
yo>i  are  not  in  love  with  me,  but  I  am  content  to 
be  in  love  with  .vou.  I  am  content  to  make  you 
mistress  of  my  fortune  and  ray  house,  and  every 
thing  I  possess,  in  return  for  yourself.  It  is  a 
fair  bargain — if  you  will  but  subscribe  to  it." 

"  Oh !  it  is  not  fair.  You  do  not  know  what 
you  are  agreeing  to — how  terribly  you  might  feel 
it  afterward," 

"  I  am  willing  to  take  the  risk." 

She  hesitates  a  moment ;  it  is  very  sweet  to  a 
woman  to  feel  she  is  loved  so  entirely,  and  reck- 
lessly, and  devotedly,  that  her  possession  is  the 
only  one  thing  in  this  world  that  her  lover  ac- 
knowledges worth  living  for.  It  is  sweet  to  be 
loved,  even  when  we  can  give  nothing  in  return. 
A  selfish  satisfaction  that  has  no  part  nor  lot  in 
the  first  requirement  of  the  divine  passion — self- 
aljnegation ;  but  still  it  falls  soothingly  upon  the 
wounded'spirit  that  has  been  rudely  thrust  from 
its  legitimate  resting-place.  It  ia  not  so  sweet  as 
loving,  but  it  is  the  next  best  thing,  and  Irene 
feels  gratitude  and  hesitation.  After  all — can  any 
change  make  her  posliion  worse  than  it  is  now  ? 

Colonel  Mordaunt  sees  the  hesitation  and — 
forgets  the  shudder  which  preceded  it ! 

"  Irene !  my  dearest  girl !  think  of  what  I  say. 
You  imagine  that  life  is  over  for  you ;  that  it  can 
never  have  any  charm  again ;  that  ii  will  be  all 
the  same  if  you  pass  the  remainder  of  it  here,  or 
anywhere !  Then  come  to  me !  Fen  Court,  at 
the  least,  is  as  comfortable  a  home  as  Laburnum 
Cottage ;  here  you  arc  but  a  guest,  there  you  will 
be  a  mistress :  and  have — may  I  not  say  it  ? — as 
devoted  a  friend  as  any  you  will  find  in  Norwood  ? 
Will  you  not  come  ?  " 

He  pleads  with  as  much  earnestness  as  though 
he  had  been  young ;  his  fine  face  lighted  up  as 
only  love  can  light  up  a  man's  countenance,  and 
his  firm  hands  closed  upon  her  own.  The  day  is 
nearly  won.  It  is  on  her  very  lips  to  answer  '  yes,' 
wiien,  from  behind  the  garden-gates,  comes  the 
sound  of  that  most  irrepressible  of  acclimatiza- 
tions, the  Italian  organ,  and  the  air  it  murders  is 
that  of  the  "  Blue  Danube  "  waltzes. 

"  No ! — ^no !  "  cries  Irene,  as  both  hands 
wrench  themselves  away  from  his,  and  go  up  with 
startling  energy  to  shut  out  the  maddening 
Ftrains  ;  "  you  must  not — you  shall  not  ask  me 
that  again.  I  have  told  you  that  it  is  impossi- 
ble I "  and  with  that  she  leaves  him  to  himself. 


Colonel  Mordaunt  is  bitterly  di-'nppointed  :  ho 
had  made  so  sure,  he  can  hardly  say  why,  that 
this  final  appeal  would  be  crowned  with  success, 
that  the  girl's  determinate  refusal  conu's  on  him 
like  a  great  blow.  lie  can  hardly  believe  that  ho 
will  really  lose  her — that  she  will  not  return  and 
tell  him  it  was  a  mistake  ;  and  in  that  belief  ho 
still  lingers  about  the  cottage — futilely. 

Mrs.  Cavendish  returns  and  begs  him  to  re- 
main to  tea,  but  he  declines,  with  thanks.  The 
opportunity  for  speaking  to  Irene  by  herself  is 
over,  and  he  is  not  likely  to  derive  any  further 
benefit  from  seeing  her  in  the  presence  of  the 
governess  and  children.  So  he  returns  to  his 
hotel  for  the  night,  not  having  quite  made  up  his 
mind  whether  he  shall  bid  the  inmates  of  the  cot- 
tage a  formal  farewell  upon  the  morrow,  or  slip 
back  to  Leicestershire  as  he  had  come  from  it — 
unnoticed.  With  the  morning,  however  he  finds 
his  courage  has  evaporated,  and  that  he  cannot 
leave  Norwood  without  at  least  looking  in  hep 
fair  face  again. 

So,  after  having  made  a  pretence  of  eating 
breakfast,  the  poor  old  gentleman  (all  the  poorer 
for  being  old,  and  feeling  his  age  at  this  moment 
more  acutely  than  any  youngster  can  imagine  for 
him)  strolls  up  to  Laburnum  Cottage,  and  enters 
at  the  wicket-gatc. 

The  lawn  is  covered  with  children,  playing 
croquet  with  their  governess  and  mother,  who 
nods  to  hii'i  as  he  enter.s,  with  an  inclination  of 
her  head  toward  the  open  door. 

"  Irene  is  in  the  school-rc  ,"  she  says,  gayly. 
But  Irene  is  not  in  the  school-room  ;  she  has  seen 
him  enter,  and  comes  to  meet  him  in  the  narrow 
passage,  clad  in  a  soft  muslin  robe  of  white  and 
black  :  the  shape  and  folds  and  general  appear- 
ance of  which  he  ever  afterward  remembers. 

"  Colonel  Mordaunt,"  she  says,  hurriedly,  with 
heightened  color,  and  trembling,  parted  lips, 
"  were  you  sincere  in  what  you  told  me  yesterday, 
that  you  would  take  me  for  your  wife,  just  as  I 
am,  without  one  particle  of  love  in  me,  except  for 
a  shameful  memory  ?  " 

"  Irene,  you  know  I  was  ! " 

"  Then,  take  me !  "  she  answers,  as  she  sub- 
mits to  the  arms  that  arc  thrown  about  her,  and  _ 
the  lips  that  are  laid  upon  her  own, 

Women  arc  prpblems :  cda  ra  sans  dire ; 
though  why  the  problems  should  remain  insoluble 
is,  perhaps,  less  due  to  their  intricacy  than  the 
muddle-heads  who  strive  to  fathom  them  by  be- 
ginning at  the  wrong  end.  I  don't  know  what 
reason  Colonel  Mordaunt  may  arsigi  to  this  a^*- 


As^:^;' j\j;:^'. 


12 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


a     ' 

■  ''i 

,;i 

'i 

''  ' '.) 

'    i 

M 

■'    '  ''ff 

\  ;>: 

■  'll 

f  I 

'    ';  i' 

U  '    1 

i  1 

parently  Buildcn  change  in  Irene  f?t.  John's  senti- 
ments ;  perha|)s  he  attributes  it  to  the  cd'eet  uf 
deliberution — more  lilccly  to  the  irresislibilitv  of 
liis  own  pleading ;  but  anyway  ho  is  quite  satis- 
fied with  the  result. 

Mrs.  Caveiulish  is  not  in  the  least  surprised, 
but  thinks  it  the  very  best  thing  her  niece  could 
do;  and  the  governess  and  children  become 
quite  excited  at  the  prospect  of  a  wedding.  No 
one  is  surprised,  indeed,  after  the  lapse  of  half  nn 
hour,  unless  it  bo  Irene  herself;  and  even  she, 
once  reconciled  to  the  idea,  tells  her  own  heart 
that  it  is  fute,  and  she  might  have  guessed  that 
it  would  end  so,  all  along. 

Perhaps  I  have  even  failed  in  surprising  my 
reader !  Yet  there  had  been  an  impetus,  and  u 
very  strong  one,  given  to  Irene  St.  John's  will 
that  day. 

The  impetus  came  in  a  letter  bearing  the 
the  post-mark  of  Berwick,  where  Mrs.  Cavendish's 
daughter  Mary  was  staying  with  some  friends, 
and  which  letter  her  mother  had  read  aloud  for  the 
benefit  of  the  breakfast-table : 

"  AVe  were  at  such  a  grand  party  last  week  " 
(so  part  of  Mary's  innocent  communication  ran) 
"  at  Lord  Norham's.  I  wore  my  blue  silk,  with 
the  pearl  ornaments  you  lent  me,  tnd  they  were 
so  much  admired.  lord  Muiraven  (Lord  Nor- 
ham's eldest  son)  was  there,  and  Mr.  Keir.  Lord 
M.  danced  twice  with  me,  but  his  brother  never 
even  spoke  to  mc,  which  I  thought  rather  rude. 
However,  he  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  Miss 
Robertson,  such  a  pretty  girl,  and  had  no  eyes 
for  any  one  else.  They  danced  together  all  the 
evening.  Mr.  Keir  is  considered  handsome,  but 
I  like  Lord  Muiraven  best." 

"Very  complimentary  to  Mary,  I'm  sure," 
remarked  the  gratified  mother,  us  she  refolded 
the  letter. — "My  dear  Irene,  I  wis'n  you  would 
just  reach  mc  down  the  'Peerage.'  What  a 
thing  it  would  be  if  Lord  Muiraven  took  a  fancy 
to  the  girl ! " 

Voild  iotU. 

Irene  St.  John  hav'.ng  once  made  up  her 
mind  to  accept  Colonel  Mordaunt's  offer,  puts  no 
obstacle  in  the  way  of  an  early  marriage;  on  the 
contrary,  she  appears  almost  feverishly  anxious 
that  the  matter  should  be  settled  and  done  with 
as  soon  as  possible ;  and,  as  they  have  none  to 
consult  but  themselves,  and  her  will  is  law,  the 
wedding  is  fi*^  ,J  to  take  place  during  the  suc- 
ceeding mor  h.  All  that  she  stipulates  for  is  that 
it  shall  be  pcricctly  private.  She  believes  she  has 
strength  to  go  through  all  that  is  before  her,  but 


IJJ^L- 


she  Avould  prefer  not  testing  that  strength  in 
public  ;  and  her  first  consideration  now  is  for  the 
feelings  of  her  future  husband,  that  they  mny 
never  be  hurt  by  some  weak  betroyal  of  her  own. 
So  all  the  necessary  preparations  arc  expeditiou.s- 
ly  but  quietly  made,  and  when  the  morning  itself 
arrives  (a  lovely  morning  in  June,  just  twelve 
months  after  poor  Mrs.  St,  John  held  that  trying 
interview  with  Eric  Keir,  in  Brook  Street),  there 
are  not  above  a  dozen  urchins,  two  nursery-maida 
with  ptirambulators,  and  a  stray  baker-boy,  hang, 
ing  about  the  wicket  of  Laburnum  Cottage  to  sec 
the  bride  step  into  her  carriage.  The  paucity  of 
Irene's  male  relations  has  made  it  rather  difficult 
to  find  any  one  to  stand  in  the  position  of  a  father 
to  her  on  this  occasion  ;  but  her  uncle,  Mr.  Camp- 
bell,  takes  that  responsibility  on  himself,  and 
has  the  honor  of  sharing  her  equipage.  Mr. 
Campbell  is  accompanied  to  Norwood  by  his  wife 
and  two  eldest  daughters,  who,  with  Mary  and 
Emily  Cavcuuish,  form  Irene's  modest  troupe  of 
bridesmaids ;  and  Miss  Mordaunt  (to  whom  her 
brother,  finding  all  persuasion  unavailing,  was 
forced  to  send  a  peremptory  order  to  put  in  an 
appearance  at  the  wedding)  is  also  present. 

She  arrived  the  day  before,  and  up  to  the 
moment  of  going  to  church  has  resisted  all  Irenc'd 
endeavors  to  make  acquaintance  with  her,  by  en- 
treaties that  she  will  not  trouble  herself  on  her 
account — that  she  will  take  no  notice  of  her — 
that  she  will  leave  her  to  do  as  best  she  can  by 
herself,  until  the  girl  inclines  to  belief  that 
her  new  sister-in-law  is  most  antagonistic  both  to 
the  marriage  and  herself;  and  little  dreams  that 
Isabella  Mordaunt's  eyes  have  opened  on  a  ne\r 
world  at  the  sight  of  her  beauty,  and  are  ready 
to  shed  tears  at  the  slightest  demonstration  of  in- 
terest on  her  part.  Yet  she  is  too  miserably  shy 
and  reserved  to  show  it. 

There  is  little  time,  however,  for  Irene  to 
think  of  that  just  now,  or  of  any  thing  except  the 
matters  in  hand,  through  all  o'  which  she  con- 
ducts herself  with  great  dignity  and  sweetness. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  naturally  thinks  there  never 
was  a  lovelier  or  more  graceful  bride,  and  most 
of  those  who  see  her  think  the  same ;  but  Irene's 
outward  comportment  is  the  least  noble  thing 
about  her  that  day.  It  cannot  but  be  a  day  of 
bitter  recollection  to  her ;  but  she  will  not  show 
it.  She  will  not  mar  the  value  of  the  gift  which 
she  has  freely  given  by  letting  the  receiver  see 
how  little  worth  it  is  to  herself.  She  goes 
through  the  religious  ceremony  in  simple  faith 
that  she  will  be  enabled  to  keep  the  promises 
she  makes ;  and  then  she  mixes  in  the  little  fcs- 


LORD  NORHAM  AND  UIS  BOYS. 


43 


cr,  for  Irene  to 
thing  except  the 

which  she  con- 
and  sweetness, 
hinks  there  never 

bride,  and  most 
ame ;  but  Irene's 
.east  noble  thing 

but  be  a  day  of 
she  will  not  show 
of  the  gift  which 

the  receiver  see 
rself.  She  goes 
y  in  simple  faith 
eep  the  promises 

in  the  little  fca- 


llvity  that  follows  with  as  much  gnyety  as  is  con- 
tistcnt  with  tlie  occasion. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  is  enchanted  with  her  every 
look  and  word  and  action ;  the  old  man  hardly 
knows  whether  he  is  standing  on  his  head  or  hia 
lieuls  ;  he  is  wr.nppcd  up  in  the  present,  and  1ms 
([iiito  forgotten  nil  that  went  before  it.  Even 
whin  he  finds  himself  alone  with  his  young  wife 
in  the  railway-carriage,  speeding  fast  to  Wey- 
inoutli,  where  thoy/are  to  spend  their  honey-moon, 
the  vision  is  not  dispelled.  It  is  true  that  he 
throws  his  arm  rather  awkwardly  about  her  slcn- 
tlor  figure,  and  kisses  her  for  the  first  time  as  u 
liMs)>and,  with  more  timidity  than  he  would  have 
sliown  had  he  been  twenty-five  years  younger, 
IJiit  Irene's  quiet,  affectionate  manners  reassure 
him.  She  appears  to  take  such  an  interest  in  all 
that  is  going  on  around  them,  and  talks  so  nat- 
urally of  what  they  shall  do  and  sec  at  Weymouth, 
and  of  the  pleasant  autumn  they  shall  spend  to- 
gether at  Fen  Court,  that  his  passing  trepidation 
lust  the  girl  should  after  all  regret  the  decision 
sho  had  made  is  soon  dispelled ;  and,  what  is 
Ijctter,  the  days  that  follow  bring  no  cloud  with 
thiMn  to  lessen  his  tranquillity.  For  Irene  is  not 
a  woman  to  marry  a  man  and  then  worry  him  to 
the  grave  by  her  sentimental  grief  for  another  ; 
slif  has  chosen  her  present  lot,  and  she  intends 
to  make  it  as  happy  a  lot  as  lies  in  her  power. 
Slic  is  of  too  honorable  and  upright  a  nature  to 
make  a  fellow-creature  pay  the  debt  of  her  own 
iiiisCortune,  and  especially  a  fellow-creature  who 
is  doing  every  *hing  in  his  power  to  make  her 
happy.  And,  added  to  this,  she  is  too  wise  to 
call  in  a  doctor  and  not  follow  his  prescriptions. 
She  has  married  Colonel  Mordaunt  as  a  refuge 
from  herself;  she  never  denies  the  truth  even  to 
licr  own  heart ;  and  if  she  is  still  to  sit  down  and 
pine  to  death  for  love  of  Eric  Keir,  where  was 
the  necessity  for  action  which  her  strong  will 
brought  to  bear  upon  her  feebler  nature  ?  She 
may  break  down  hereafter ;  but  Irene  Mordaunt 
commences  her  march  upon  the  path  of  married 
life  bravely. 

She  not  only  strives  to  be  pleased — she  is 
pleased  with  all  that  her  husband  does  for  her — 

[  with  the  numerous  presents  he  lays  at  her  feet, 
the  pleasant  excursions  he  devises,  the  thought- 

j  ful  care  he  shows  for  her  comfort.    She  repays 
it  all  with  gratitude  and  affection.    Tea — Colo- 

I  nel  Mordaunt  has  done  well  in  confiding  his  hon- 
or and  happiness  to  Irene's  keeping ! 

About  the  same  date,  in  that  same  month  of 
I  June,  a  jolly,  genial-hearted  old  man,  commonly 


known  as  tlie  Karl  of  Xorliani,  is  seated  in  the 
library  of  Berwick  Castle,  in  lier  majesty's  "  loyal 
and  worshipful  borough  of  Berwick."  Lord 
Norhiim  does  not  carry  out  in  the  faintest  degree 
the  idea  of  a  lord,  as  usually  depicted  by  the 
liented  imaginations  of  the  young  and  the  unini- 
tiated. His  appearance  alone  would  be  sufliciont 
to  put  to  flight  all  the  dreuins  of  "  sweet  seven- 
teen," or  th  ambitious  cravings  of  a  niatunir 
age.  lie  is  a  tall,  stout  man,  of  about  fiveand- 
sixty,  with  a  smiling  red  face,  a  bushy  head  of 
<:ray  hair,  and  "mutton-chop"  wliiskers  just  one 
sliade  darker;  and  ho  is  dressed  in  black-and- 
white  checked  trousers,  of  decidedly  country 
make;  a  white  waistcoat,  with  the  old-fasliioued 
stock  surmounting  it ;  and  a  brown  hollaud  cuat. 
the  windows  of  the  library  are  all  open  to  the  air, 
anil  Lord  Norham  is  not  warndy  nttirei!,  yet  ho 
sitnjs  much  oppressed  by  tlie  weather ;  and  to 
sue  liini  lay  down  his  pen  every  two  minutes  (he 
is  writing  letters  for  the  mid-duy  post)  and  mop 
Ids  heated  face  round  and  r^und  witli  a  yellow- 
and-red  silk  handkerchief  until  it  shines  again, 
you  would  be  ready  to  swear  he  was  a  jolly,  welU 
to-do  farmer,  who  had  every  reason  to  be  satisfied 
with  his  crops  and  his  dinner-table.  In  effect, 
Lord  Norham  is  all  you  would  imagine  him  to 
be ;  for  agriculture  is  his  hobby,  aud  ho  allows 
no  accidents  to  disturb  his  peace.  But  he  i» 
something  much  better  into  the  bargain — a  true 
nobleman,  and  the  fondest  father  in  tlic  United 
Kingdom.  lie  lost  his  wife  at  a  very  early  stage 
of  tlieir  married  life,  and  ho  has  never  thought 
of  marrying  again,  but  devoted  his  life  to  the 
children  she  left  behind  her.  There  are  only 
those  three,  Robert,  Lord  Muiraven,  and  his 
brothers  Eric  and  Cecil ;  and  when  their  mother 
died  the  eldest  was  just  four  years  old.  Then  it 
was  that  all  the  latent  worth  and  nobility  of  Lord 
Norham's  character  came  forth.  His  friends  had 
rated  him  before  at  a  very  ordinary  standard, 
knowing  him  to  be  an  excellent  landlord  and  an 
indulgent  husband,  and  crediting  him  with  as 
much  good  sense  as  his  position  in  life  required, 
and  a  strict  belief  in  the  Thirtj'-nine  Articles. 
But  from  that  date  they  saw  the  man  as  he  really 
was — from  that  moment,  when  he  knew  himself 
to  be  Viidowed  and  desolate,  and  his  unfoitunato 
little  ones  left  without  a  mother  at  the  very  time 
they  wanted  her  most,  he  took  a  solemn  oath 
never  to  place  the  happiness  of  her  children  at 
the  mercy  of  another  woman's  caprice,  but  to  bo 
to  them,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  father  and  mother 
both.  The  man  must  have  had  a  heart  as  wide 
as  a  woman's  to  arrive  at  such  a  conclusion,  and 


w 


.<i 


fei 


f    ■       !l 


■ .!  ■'!:  I 


44 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


■tick  to  it;  for  the  teni]itations  to  cliangc  his 
Btato  ugain  must  have  bcfti  manifuld.  liiit  a»  in 
some  motlieis'  lii-cnsts  the  I'ciliiiKi  of  nmtiriiity, 
once  developed,  can  iu'ver  be  riviiled  Uy  a  iiuiiiier 
pasfiion,  so,  though  far  more  rarely,  it  oceasioii- 
nlly  happens  with  a  father  ;  and  from  that  day  to 
this,  when  we  Hee  him  mopping  his  dear  old  face 
with  bis  silk  handkerchief.  Lord  Xorham  has 
never  staggered  in  his  purpose — more,  he  has 
never  repented  it.  Lord  Muiraven  and  his  broth- 
ers do  not  know  what  it  is  to  regret  their  motlier. 
Slic  died  ."O  early,  that  they  have  no  recollection 
of  her;  and  Lord  Norham's  care  and  indulgence 
have  been  so  close  and  unremitting,  that  the 
knowledge  that  other  young  men  have  mothers 
who  love  them,  and  are  their  best  friends,  has  no 
power  to  do  more  tlian  make  them  think  what  a 
glorious  old  fellow  their  father  must  be,  never  to 
have  let  them  feel  the  want  of  theirs.  Indeed, 
love  for  their  father  is  a  religion  with  these 
young  men,  who  even  go  to  the  length  of  being 
jealous  of  each  other  in  vying  for  his  affection  in 
return.  And  with  Lord  Norliam,  the  bo;/s  arc 
every  ihing.  His  earldom  might  be  w.-csfcd  from 
him,  Berwick  Castle  burned  to  the  ground,  his 
money  sunk  in  a  West  End  theatre,  the  Sitliir' 
day  Review  might  even  stoop  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  his  proceedings — yet  give  him  his  "  boys," 
and  he  would  be  happy.  Fortlieir  sakes,  he  sows 
and  reaps  and  thrashes  out  the  corn,  has  horse- 
boxes added  to  his  stables,  and  a  racquet-court 
built  upon  his  grounds;  tlie  bedrooms  heated 
by  hot-air  pipes,  and  the  drawing-room  turned 
into  a  smoking  divan.  They  are  his  one  thought 
and  interest  and  pleasure — the  theme  that  is  for- 
ever on  his  tongue,  with  which  he  wearies  every- 
body but  himself.  lie  lives  upon  "  the  boys," 
and  sleeps  upon  "  the  boys,"  and  eats  and  drinks 
"the  boys ;  "  and  when  he  dies,  those  cabalistic 
words,  "  the  boys,"  will  be  found  engraved  on 
bis  honest,  loving  heart. 

He  has  just  raised  his  handkerchief  to  wipe 
his  face  for  about  the  twentieth  time,  when  the 
door  is  thrown  open,  and  a  "  boy  "  enters.  There 
is  no  need  for  Lord  Norham  to  turn  round.  lie 
knows  the  step — trust  him  for  that — and  the 
beam  that  illuminates  his  countenance  makes  it 
look  redder  and  shinier  than  before. 

"  Well,  my  dear  boy ! "  he  commences,  before 
the  prodigy  can  reach  his  side. 

"  Have  you  seen  this,  dad  ?  "  replies  Cecil,  as 
he  places  the  Timet  advertisement  sheet  upon 
the  table. 

He  is  a  fine  young  fellow,  just  one  year 
younger  than  Eric,  and,  as  his  father  puts  on  his 


glasses  to  read  the  paragraph  to  which  he  point.-, 
he  stands  by  his  side  and  throws  his  arm  ri|;lit 
round  tlie  old  man's  neck  in  the  nioi-t  chiirmiiig 
and  natural  manner  i>0!'(iilile. 

"  Where,  my  dear  boy,  wlicre  1  "  denmmls 
Lord  Norliam,  running  his  eyes  up  and  down  tlic 
page. 

"  There,  dad — the  top  marriage.  '  At  .'•I. 
•Tolin's  Cliurcli,  Norwood,  I'liilip  Mordaimt,  Es(i„ 
of  Fen  Court,  Leicestershire,  lieutenant-culond 
in  II.  M.  Regt,  155111  Hoyal  Greens,  to  Irene,  only 
child  of  tlie  late  Thomas  St.  .Tolin,  Esq.,  of  Broolj 
Street,  W."  Don't  you  know  who  that  is? 
Erie's  spoon,  that  he  was  so  hot  after  last  season. 
He'll  be  awfully  cut  up  wlien  he  reads  this,  I 
know." 

"ii'r/c'»  spoon,  dear  boy!"  exeiaiius  LoiJ 
Norliam,  who  is  quite  at  a  loss  to  understand  iIjc 
mysterious  allusion. 

"  Yes  ! — the  woman  he  was  spooney  on,  I 
mean.  Why,  every  one  thought  it  was  a  settled 
thing,  for  he  was  always  at  the  house.  But  I 
suppose  she  wouldn't  have  him — which  quite  ai'- 
counts  for  the  poor  fellow's  dumps  all  last  au- 
tumn. Eric  was  awfully  slow  last  autumn,  you 
know,  fother — he  didn't  seem  to  care  for  hunting 
or  shooting,  or  doing  any  thing  in  company.  I  said 
at  the  time  I  was  sure  the  girl  had  jilted  him : 
and  so  she  has,  plain  enough  !  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  tliis  is  a  perfect  revelation  to 
me ! "  exclaims  Lord  Norliam,  pushing  liis  glasses 
on  to  his  forehead,  and  wheeling  round  his  chair 
to  confront  his  son.  "  Eric  in  love !  I  had  not 
the  least  idea  of  it." 

"  Hadn't  you  ?  He  was  close  enough  with 
us,  of  course :  but  I  made  sure  he  would  have 
told  you.  Oh,  these  things  must  happen,  you 
know,  dad  ;  there's  no  help  for  them." 

"  And  this  girl — this  Miss  St.  John,  or  who- 
ever she  is — refused  your  brother,  you  say  ?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't  say  that,  father.  I  know  noth- 
ing for  certain — it  was  only  suppositivn  on  my 
part ;  but,  putting  this  and  that  together,  it  looks 
like  it — doesn't  it,  now  ?  " 

Cecil  is  smiling  with  the  carelessness  of  youth 
to  pain  ;  but  Lord  Norham  is  looking  grave — his 
heart  wretched  at  the  idea  of  one  of  his  cherished 
"  boys  "  having  been  so  slighted.  It  is  true  tliat 
he  had  heard  nothing  of  this  little  episode  in 
Eric's  life  ;  for  when  he  goes  up  to  town,  a  very  rai  t 
occurrence,  ho  seldom  stays  for  more  than  a  few 
weeks  at  a  time,  and  never  mixes  in  any  lighter 
dissipation  than  an  evening  in  the  House  to  hear 
some  of  his  old  friends  speak  (Lord  Norham  v<-as 
for  many  years  a  member  of  Parliament  himself)) 


THE  MARRIAGE  AXXOUN'CEMEXT. 


45 


or  a  heavy  puliticul  dinner  whoio  no  luJics  are 
ailniiUi'il. 

It  ii  all  new.s  to  him,  and  very  unploasunt 
iie««.  It  eniiblu!)  Liiii  to  aueount  for  several 
tiling*  ill  Eric's  behavior  whieli  have  j)uzzled  liiui 
before  ;  but  it  shoeku  him  to  think  that  hia  boy 
sliould  have  been  sull'eriiit',  and  HuH'ering  alone— 
hlioekH  him  almost  as  much  as  though  ho  liad 
been  his  motlicr  instead  of  his  father — and  uU 
liis  thoughts  go  out  immediately  to  the  best  means 
of  eouveying  hiui  eomfort. 

"  Cecil,  my  dear  !  "  (the  old  man  constantly 
makes  strangers  smile  to  hour  him  address  these 
stalwart  young  men,  with  beards  upon  their  chins, 
as  ihougli  they  were  still  children),  "  don't  say 
any  tiling  about  this  to  your  brother,  will  you  ? 
He  will  hear  it  fast  enough ;  ill  news  travels 
iipace." 

"  Oh  !  he's  seen  it,  father;  at  least,  I  suspect 
he's  seen  it,  for  he  was  studying  the  paper  for  an 
hour  before  I  got  it.  I  only  took  it  up  when  he 
laid  it  down." 

"  And  where  is  he  now  ?  "  demands  Lord 
Xurham,  quickly.  It  would  be  exaggeration  per- 
haps to  assert  that  ho  has  immediate  visions  of 
liis  beloved  Eric  sticking  head  downward  in  the 
muddiest  part  of  the  lake,  but,  had  his  imagina- 
tion thus  run  riot,  he  could  scarcely  have  asked 
tiie  question  with  more  anxiety. 

"  In  his  room,  I  think ;  I  haven't  seen  him 
since.  By-the-way,  dad,  I  shall  run  up  to  town 
again  to-morrow.  Eric  says  he  has  had  enough 
of  it ;  but  Muiraven  and  I  have  engagements 
three  weeks  deep.  You  can't  bo  up  again  this 
season,  I  suppose  ?  " 

'•  I  don't  think  so,  dear  boy,  unless  it  should 
be  for  a  week  before  the  House  breaks  up.  And 
so  Eric  is  not  going  back  again,  though  it  nmst 
be  very  dull  for  him  here,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Precious  slow,  isn't  It,  now  the  Robertsons 
are  gone  ?  " 

"  You'll  stay  with  them,  I  suppose,  Cecil  ? '' 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  so.  They've  asked  me, 
but  I'd  rather  put  up  with  Bob,  It's  all  very 
well  being  engaged,  you  know,  father,  when  you 
are  sitting  on  a  sofa  together  in  a  room  by  your- 
selves ;  but  it  takes  all  the  gilt  off  the  ginger- 
bread for  me  to  be  trotted  out  before  a  few  friends 
as  Harriet's  '  young  man.'  Bliss  is  oidy  procur- 
able in  solitude  or  a  crowd.  Besides,  a  nine 
o'clock  breakfast,  and  no  latch-key,  doesn't  agree 
with  my  notions  of  the  season." 

"It  ought  to  agree  with  your  notions  of  being 
engaged,  you  young  rip  !  "  says  his  father,  laugh- 
ing. 


"  No,  it  doesn't  I  No  woman  shall  ever  keep 
me  in  leading-strings,  married  or  single.  I  mean  to 
have  my  liberty  all  my  life.  And  if  Harriet 
doesn't  like  it,  why,  she  may  lump  it,  or  take  up 
with  some  one  else  ;  that's  what  I  tell  her !  " 

"  The  principles  of  the  nineteenth  ci-ntury  !  " 
cries  Lord  Norham.  "  Well !  I  think  shi-'d  be  a 
fold  to  change  you,  Cecil,  whatever  conditions 
you  may  choose  to  make." 

"Of  course  yon  think  po,  dad.  However,  if 
my  lady  wants  to  keep  me  in  town  this  weather, 
she'll  have  to  make  herself  very  agreeable.  Per- 
fect sin  to  leave  this  place  for  bricks  and  mortur, 
isn't  it  ?  " 

"  It  seems  a  pity  ;  just  as  the  hay  is  coming 
on,  too.  I  shall  persuade  Eric  to  ride  over  to 
the  moors  with  me,  and  see  what  the  grouse  pros- 
pects are  looking  like  this  year." 

"  Yes !  do,  father.  That'll  stir  up  the  poor 
old  boy.  IIullo !  there's  Muiraven  beckoning  to 
me  across  the  lawn.  We're  going  to  blood  the 
bay  filly.  Slie's  been  looking  very  queer  the  lust 
few  days,  Hope  it's  not  glanders. — All  right ! " 
with  a  shout ;  "  I'll  come !  "  and,  leaping  through 
the  open  window,  Lord  Norham's  youngest  hope 
joins  his  brother,  while  the  old  man  gazes  after 
his  sons  until  they  disappear,  with  eyes  over- 
brimming with  proud  affection. 

Tlien  he  rises  and  goes  in  search  of  his  stricken 
Eric,  with  much  the  same  sort  of  feeling  with 
which  a  woman  rushes  to  the  side  of  a  beloved 
daughter  as  soon  as  she  hears  she  is  in  trouble. 

Eric  IS  in  his  bedroom — a  large,  handsune 
apartment,  flicing  the  park — and  he  is  sitting  at 
the  toilet-table  without  any  apparent  design,  .gaz- 
ing at  the  thick  foliage  below,  and  the  fallow-deer 
that  are  clustered  on  the  grass  beneath  it. 

He  jumps  up  as  soon  as  his  father  enters, 
however,  and  begins  to  whistle  loudly,  and  to  run 
his  fingers  through  his  hair  before  the  glass,  as 
though  his  sole  object  in  going  there  had  been 
to  beautify  himself. 

"  Well,  dad  ! "  he  says,  cheerfully. 

"  Well,  my  dear  boy  !"  replies  Lord  Norham, 
with  a  vain  attempt  to  conceal  his  anxiety ; 
"  what  arc  you  going  to  do  with  yourself  this  fine 
morning  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Ride,  I  suppose,  or 
read,  or  yawn  the  time  away.  Where  arc  the 
others  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  the  siablcs  to  physic  the  bay  filly. 
Have  you  seen  the  papers,  Eric  ?  " 

A  slight  change  passes  over  his  countenance 
— -just  a  quiver  of  the  muscles,  nothing  more : 
but  the  father's  eye  detects  it. 


E 


40 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


i 


it' 


H  f 


'if  I! 


"  Yf»,  tliankrtl — oh,  jott!  I'vo  scon  them!  No 
ncwH,  as*  UHiial.  There  never  U  any  news  nown- 
daj!<." 

"  Iliive  you  HC'-'H  llic  Tunn,  my  dear  boy  ?  " 

"  Y.'M." 

*'  Wliiit !  tlio  udvi'ili»uini.'nt  slui-t — tlie  inur- 
rloges  V  " 

"  Ye.s !  why  do  you  iisk  inc  ?  " 

"  Ilt'CuuHO  I  tliought — I  imagined — tht'i'e  was 
ail  aiiiiouiiceiiient  tlicro  that  would  interest  you — 
tliat  wouhl  bo  news:  in  fuet,  bad  news." 

"  Wlio  said  so  ?  "  demands  Erie  Keir,  turning 
round  to  eonfront  his  father.  lie  is  very  pule, 
and  there  id  a  Iiard  loolc  about  tlio  lines  of  liis 
face  wliieli  was  not  there  yesterday;  otherwise, 
lie  Seems  liimself  and  quite  collected. 

But  Lord  Norhara  will  not  betray  Cecil:  he 
never  sets  one  child  against  the  other  by  letting 
him  suppose  that  his  brothers  speak  of  him  be- 
hind his  back ;  that  is  one  reason  why  the  young 
men  arc  mutually  so  fond  of  one  another  and  of 
him. 

"  I  imagined  so,  my  dear  boy,  that's  all.  Your 
little  pcHcfuxnt  oi  last  season  was  no  secret,  you 
know,  and,  reading  \"hat  I  do  to-day,  I  naturally 
thought—" 

"  You  are  speaking  of  Miss  St.  John's  mar- 
riage, father,  I  suppose.  But  why  should  that 
cut  mc  up  ?  Wc  were  very  good  friends  before  her 
mother  died,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but — " 

"But  nothing  more!  You  didn't  care  for  her, 
Kric  ?  " 

"  My  dear  old  dad,  you  arc  not  going  to  advo- 
cate my  caring  for  another  man's  wife,  are  you  ? 
Of  course  I  liked  her — every  one  liked  her:  she 
was  awfully  pretty  and  jolly,  and  disliiijuecAook- 
ing ;  and  if  she's  only  half  as  nice  as  Mrs.  Mor- 
aunt  as  she  was  as  Miss  St.  John,  I  shall  say  that 
— that — Mordaunt,  whoever  he  may  be,  is  a  very 
lucky  fellow."  And  hero  Eric  whistles  more  fero- 
ciously than  before. 

"  It  is  such  a  relief  to  hear  you  speak  in  tliis 
strain  about  it,  my  dear  boy,"  replies  Lord  Nor- 
ham,  who  has  seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair  by 
the  open  window ;  "  do  you  know,  Eric,  from  the 
rumors  that  have  reached  me,  I  was  almost  afraid 
— almost  afraid,  you  know,  my  dear,  that  you 
might  have  been  led  on  to  propose  in  that  quar- 
ter.    You  didn't  propose  to  her,  did  you,  Eric  ?  " 

"No,  dad  1  I  didn't  propose  to  her !"  replies 
the  young  man,  stoutly. 

"  Then  why  did  you  break  off  the  intimacy  so 
suddenly  ?  You  used  to  be  very  intimate  indeed 
with  the  St.  Johns  last  season." 

"  What  a  jolly  old  inquisitor  you  would  have 


niailc,  father,  ami  how  you  woulil  have  cnjovid 
jiutting  the  thumb-screw  on  a  fi'llow  1  >Vhy  diij  1 
break  ofTthe  Infimacy  so  suddenly  ? — well,  I  diiiiji 
break  it  otf.  .MrH.  Ht.  John  thought  I  was  iIhk 
too  often,  and  told  me  so,  and  1  HhctTcil  oil"  ji; 
coiisequeneo.  Al'terwurd  they  went  abioad,  ainl 
the  poor  old  lady  died,  and  I  have  not  seen  tli' 
young  one  since.     That's  the  whole  truth." 

"  And  you  didn't  like  the  giil  well  enoiigli  tu 
marry  her,  then  ?  " 

A  cloud,  palpable  to  the  dullest  eye,  ob.'*euri  i 
for  a  moment  all  the  forced  gayety  of  his  exprc  . 
sion. 

"  My  dear  father  !  I  don't  want  to  marry  any 
one." 

"  That  is  what  puzzles  me,  Eric.  \Vhy  shouldn't 
you  want  it  ?  " 

"  There's  a  lot  of  time,  i^n't  there  ?  You  don't 
expect  a  fellow  to  tie  himself  down  for  life  at  live- 
and-twenty  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  it  is  unnatural  for  a  young  man  to 
avoid  female  society  as  you  do.  It  can't  be  bo- 
cause  you  dislike  it,  my  dear  boy." 

"I  have  no  particular  taste  for  it." 

"  But  why  ?  they  don't  snub  you,  do  they  ?  I 
should  think  you  could  do  pretty  much  as  ynu 
like  with  the  women,  eh,  Eric  ?  "  with  a  glance  ol 
pride  that  speaks  volumes. 

"I  never  try,  dad.  I  am  very  luij.py  n^  I 
am." 

"  My  dear  boy  I  that  is  what  convincc-s  n;e 
that  there  is  something  more  the  matter  than  yu 
choose  to  confess.  If  every  thing  was  right,  yoi; 
wouldn't  bo  happy  as  you  arc.  Look  at  your 
brothers  I     Here's  Cecil  engaged  already." 

"  Poor  devil  I "  interpolates  Eric. 

"And  Muiravcn  doing  his  best  to  be  fo; 
although  I  don't  think  he's  quite  such  a  favoiite 
with  the  girls  as  his  brother.  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why,  or  what  they  can  possibly  want  more, 
for  you  would  scarcely  meet  a  finer  young  mau 
from  here  to  John  O'Groat's  than  Muiravcn  is." 

Eiic,  recalling  Muiraven's  thick-set  figure, 
round,  rosy  face  (he  takes  after  the  carl),  and  red- 
dish hair,  cannot  forbear  smiling. 

"  lie's  an  out-and-out  good  fellow,  dad,  but 
he's  no  beauty." 

"  He's  a  different  style  to  yourself,  I  allow ; 
but  he's  a  very  good-looking  young  man.  How- 
ever, that  doesn't  alter  circum.stanees.  If  he 
doesn't  marry,  it  is  all  the  more  incumbent  on 
you  to  think  of  doing  so." 

"  I  shall  never  marry,  father,"  says  Eric,  un- 
easily ;  "  you  must  put  that  idea  out  of  your 
head  at  once." 


THE   HONEYMOON'. 


47 


lilt  to  luarry  nnv 


WhvBhouldn'i 


eiy  happy   an  I 


fellow,  dad,  but 


"  There,  again,  that'*  iiiinaturiil,  anil  thoro 
mint  be  a  roiison  for  it.  You  arc  graver,  too, 
tliun  vour  yours,  Eric,  and  you  oftt-u  Imvo  lit*  of 
(li'spondeiicy ;  and  I  have  tiiouglit,  my  dear  (you'll 
for^jivo  your  old  father  for  nieiitlonlnn  It),  that 
voii  must  have  encountered  some  little  disappoint- 
ineiit  early  in  life,  say  in  your  collei,'«>.<lay>(,  wliieh 
littM  had  a  great  elVuet  upon  your  character.  Am 
I  risht  ?  " 

"  How  eloHcIy  you  must  have  watched  me ! " 
replies  the  son,  evasively. 

"  Whom  have  I  in  tlic  world  t  j  interest  me 
except  you  and  your  lirothers  ?  You  are  part  of 
myself,  ray  dear  hoy.  Your  pleasures  nro  my 
pleasures,  and  your  griefs  heeorao  my  griefs.  I 
have  passed  many  a  restless  nitrht  thinking  of 
you,  Eric ! " 

"  Dear  old  dad  ! "  says  Erie,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  father's  shoulder,  and  looking  him  affec- 
tionately  in  the  face,  "I  am  not  worth  so  much 
trouble  on  your  part — indeed  I  am  not." 

"  Oil  t  now  I  feel  inclined  to  (piarrel  with  you," 
say f  Lord  Norham ;  "  the  iilea  of  your  talking 
such  nonsense!  Why,  child,  if  it  were  for  no 
otlior  reason,  it  would  be  for  this,  tliat  every  time 
you  look  at  me  as  you  did  just  now,  your  sweet 
mother  seems  to  rise  from  her  grave  and  gaze  at 
me  through  your  eyes.  Ah  !  my  poor  Grace  1  if 
fhc  had  liveil,  her  boys  would  have  had  some  one 
to  whom  they  felt  they  could  open  their  heart, 
instead  of  closing  them  up  and  bearing  their 
troubles  by  themselves." 

"Father  don't  say  that!"  exclaims  Eric,  ear- 
nestly. "  If  I  had  had  twenty  mothers,  I  couldn't 
have  confided  in  them  more  than  I  do  in  you,  nor 
loved  them  more.  But  you  are  too  good  for  me, 
and  expect  too  great  things  of  mo,  and  I  shall  end 
by  being  a  disappointment,  after  all.  That  is  my 
fear." 

"  I  can  never  bo  disappointed  while  you  and 
your  brothers  are  happy ;  but  how  can  I  remedy 
an  evil  of  which  I  must  not  hear  ?  " 

"  You  will  harp  on  that  idea  of  my  having 
come  to  grief,"  says  Eric,  testily. 

"  Because  I  believe  it  to  be  true.  I  would 
never  try  to  force  your  confidence,  dear  boy ;  but 
it  would  be  a  great  comfort  to  know  you  had  no 
secrets  from  me." 

The  young  man  has  a  struggle  with  himself, 
flushes,  and  then  runs  on  hurriedly. 

"  Well,  then,  if  it  will  give  you  any  pleasure,  I 
will  tell  you.  I  have  had  a  trouble  of  the  kind  you 
mention,  and  I  find  it  hard  to  throw  it  olT,  and  I 
should  very  much  like  to  leave  England  again  for 
a  short  time.    Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  better  you 


should  know  tlic  truth,  father,  and  then  you  will 
bo  able  to  account  for  the  restlessness  of  my  dls- 
position." 

"My  poor  boy!"  says  Lord  Norhanv,  ob- 
straelcdly.  Hut  Eric  doesn't  care  about  being 
pitieil. 

"What  about  tlie  traveling,  dad?  Charley 
Holmes  is  going  In  for  his  county  next  election, 
and  wants  me  to  run  over  to  America  with  him 
for  u  spell  first.  It's  nothing  of  a  journey  nowa- 
days, and  I  could  come  liaek  whenever  you  wanted 
me.     Sliall  I  say  I'll  go  ?  " 

"  Go,  my  dear  ?  Yes,  of  course,  if  it'll  givo 
you  iiiiv  pleasure  ;  only  take  care  of  yourself,  and 
come  back  cured." 

"Xo  fear  of  tliat,"  he  replies,  laughing;  "in 
fact,  it's  half  doni;  already.  We  eau't  go  through 
life  without  any  sc"atehes,  fither." 

"  No,  my  boy,  no !  and  they're  necessary,  too 
— they're  necessary.  Make  what  arrangements 
you  like  about  Atnerica,  Eric;  fix  your  own  time 
and  your  own  destination,  only  make  up  your 
mind  to  enjoy  yourself,  and  to  come  back  cured, 
my  boy — to  come  back  cured." 

Lord  Norham  is  about  to  leave  tlie  room  as 
ho  chuckles  over  the  last  words,  but  suddenly  ho 
turns  and  comes  back  again. 

"  I  have  suffered,  my  dear,"'  ho  says,  gently  ; 
"  I  know  what  it  is." 

The  young  man  grasps  the  hand  extcnd-jd ; 
squeezes  it  as  thougli  it  were  in  a  vice,  and  wAka 
away  to  the  open  window. 

His  father  pats  him  softly  on  the  back,  passes 
his  hiind  once  fondly  over  his  hair,  and  leaves 
him  to  himself.  And  this  is  the  parent  from 
whom  he  has  concealed  the  darkest  secret  of  his 
life  !  " 

"  Oh,  if  I  eoitlil  but  tell  him  !  "  groans  Eric ; 
"  if  I  only  could  make  up  my  mind  to  tell  him, 
how  much  happier  I  should  be. — Irene !  Irene  ! 
you  have  doubled  the  gulf  between  us  !  " 

He  docs  not  weep  ;  he  has  grown  too  old  for 
tears ;  but  he  stands  at  the  window,  suffering 
tlic  tortures  of  hell,  until  the  loud  clanging  of 
the  luncheon-bell  draws  him  back  unwillingly  in- 
to the  world  again. 


i' 

i"- 


CU.VPTER  v. 

It  is  on  a  glorious  July  afternoon  that  Colonel 
Mordaunt  brings  his  wife  to  Fen  Court.  There 
is  no  railway-station  within  ten  miles  of  Priestley, 


■^:'i:.M. 


48 


"NO  INTKNTI0N8." 


but  an  open  cuniugc  muutri  tlii-tii  un  arrival  at  thu 
nuarcitt  tu\YM,  au<l  a*  (hey  roll  lioinuwurU  tliroii;{li 
lonj;  country  Iuiu.h,  liurdoruil  with  n('il|;(>s  in  wlilclt 
tliu  hranihk'-flowcr  iinil  tlio  woodliii.o  liavu  Joiiioil 
U.siic  to  piiil  till!  »ilil-roiv:i  and  thu  |iiu'[ilc  ni^lit- 
chadi'  ti)  tlic  uniiinil,  Iit'ne  i.'X|>urii'ni.'i'it  u  M'n.si;  ul' 
Hilcnt  calm  wliicli  niukcH  her  believe  that  hIiu  hits  at 
last  brousled  Hia'Ci'ssfnlly  tho  blllowH  of  lil'o,  ami 
i'niL'i');u(l  thcni'i!  with  thu  gruutust  good  tlii.s  world 
atVordH  \u  in  Iwv  hand — t'ontcntinuiit !  Tlu-y  have 
had  a  long  and  luiliou!)  journey  from  Wcyiiiouth  ; 
tliu  8un  hii4  been  inconveniently  warm,  and  tho 
railwuy-cttrriugcH  lilled  with  dust,  and  even  good- 
natured  people  might  bu  excused  from  feeling  a 
little  pcevlHli  or  Impatient  by  the  close  of  day  ;  but 
Irene  and  Colonel  Mordaunt  seem  admirably  fitted 
to  get  on  together.  Sh"  Id  all  gentle  ucquieseenee 
to  any  thing  he  may  propoHo  (gratitude  and  in- 
differeneu  being  the  principal  ingredientd  in  Biib- 
miasion),  and  ho  U  devoted  to  hid  young  wife,  and 
has  spent  his  tiiuo  hitherto  iu  anticipating  her 
wishes,  but  in  a  manner  so  unobtrusive  as  to  have 
rendered  even  the  honey-moon  agreeable  to  her. 
Tor,  whatever  may  bo  the  general  opinion  to  tho 
contrary,  tho  honey-moon  is  not  always  the  hap- 
piest part  of  married  life ;  indeed  there  are  few 
instances  of  it  in  which  both  husband  and  wife 
are  not  secretly  pleased  when  it  is  drawing  to  a 
close.  Brides  who  aro  worshiped  as  divinities 
during  the  first  week  are  apt  to  become  exigeanka 
during  the  lust  three,  and  bridegrooms  are  some- 
times forced  to  confess  tlie  melancholy  truth  that 
"  the  full  soul  loatheth  the  honey-comb."  I  have 
known  a  seven  days'  wife  cry  uU  the  afternoon 
because  her  husband  went  to  sleep  on  the  sofa ; 
and  a  freshly-made  Benedict  plead  law,  sickness, 
business,  ony  thing,  in  order  to  procure  a  run  up 
to  town  during  tho  fatal  moon,  and  a  few  hours' 
cessation  from  thu  continuous  tax  laid  on  his 
patience,  gallantry,  and  temper.  Mony  a  married 
life  that  has  ended  in  misery  might  have  flowed 
on  evenly  enough  had  it  not  been  for  the  injury 
done  to  a  woman's  character  during  that  month 
of  blandishments  and  folly.  It  requires  a  strong 
mind  to  accept  at  their  true  worth  all  the  non- 
sense a  man  talks  and  all  the  foolish  actions  of 
which  he  is  guilty  during  those  first  rapturous 
moments  of  possession — and  women,  as  a  rule, 
ore  not  strong-minded.  All  the  hyperbole  of 
passion,  which  until  then  they  have  only  heard  in 
furtive  lovers'  whispers,  is  now  poured  out  boldly 
at  their  feet,  and  the  geese  imagine  it  to  be  a 
epecimen  or  a  promise  of  what  their  future  life 
eholl  be.  A  fortnight  sees  tho  ardor  cooled ;  in 
«  month  it  has  evaporated,  and  thenceforth  thev 


are  Judged,  not  a«  goddesdcK,  but  women.  Ibiw 
fuw  Fitand  thu  text  and  can  Htep  down  gracefully 
from  the  pedestal  oil  which  they  have  been  uii. 
natuially  exalted  to  thu  level  of  their  husbandt' 
hearts,  let  thu  lives  of  our  married  ac(piuintani'i'< 
answer  for  us.  Hut  whether  it  would  |iruvent  tin 
final  icsuu  or  not,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  tlii; 
happiness  of  many  a  man  and  woman  would  iint 
come  CO  ipiiekly  to  a  close,  weru  the  latter  trealiil 
with  a  littlu  more  discretion  during  the  honey- 
moon, As  husbands  intend  to  go  on,  so  shoiiM 
they  begin.  A  woman  is  a  Hus|iicluus  animal; 
her  expcriencu  is  small,  her  views  are  narrow,  livr 
range  of  sight  limited  ;  and  more  nun  have  been 
whined,  and  teased,  and  irritated  out  of  their  lovi 
than  Btoriiied  out  of  it.  Tliere  is  no  more  miser 
nlile  mlnlaku  in  lifu  than  to  attempt  to  warm  up;i 
fading  passion:  rii-hauffit  are  never  worth  mudi, 
but  this  Hlyle  of  fiximuffi  pays  the  worst  of  uii. 
If  wives  would  be  reasonable,  they  will  tako  all 
that  is  olTcred  them  ;  but  iiever  stoop  to  extract 
an  unwilling  avowal  of  alTeclion,  which  will  burn 
none  the  brighter  for  being  dragged  to  the  light 
oi  day.  A  little  happy  inditl'erence  is  the  best 
possible  medicine  for  a  drooping  love  ;  und  the 
injunction  to  "leave  them  alone  and  they'll  come 
home,"  holds  as  good  with  men  as  with  the  flock  uf 
IJo-perp.  Irene  Morduiint  bills  fai"  to  keep  hir 
husband's  devotion  in  a  healthy  c  'm  by  this 

means.    Her  manner  toward  him  voet  and 

gentle  as  it  can  be,  but  it  naturally  possesses  nu 
ardor ;  and  this  want  of  passion  on  her  part  is 
just  sutlleient  to  keep  his  middle-aged  flame 
burning  very  brightly,  without  giving  liim  any 
anxiety  on  account  of  hers. 

He  would  have  preferred,  like  other  men,  to 
make  a  fool  of  himself  during  the  honey -moon  (and 
the  adage  that  "  there  is  no  fool  like  an  old  fool " 
'i:old3  truer  iu  love  than  any  other  feeling),  but 
something  in  Irene's  quiet  and  sensible  manner 
has  forbidden  it,  and  compelled  him  to  treat  her 
as  if  they  had  been  married  for  several  years. 
And  yet  she  is  not  cold  to  him — she  docs  not 
repulse  his  attentions  nor  refuse  to  acknowledge 
them ;  on  the  contrary,  as  they  commence  their 
drive  to  Priestley,  and  he  wraps  a  shawl  about 
her  feet,  and  makes  her  put  them  upon  tho  oppo- 
site seat,  the  smile  with  which  she  thanks  him 
would  be  sufTicient  to  put  a  younger  man  "  off  his 
head." 

"  How  beautiful  the  country  is ! "  she  says,  m 
they  pass  fields  of  clean-shorn  sheep,  and  rosy 
children  bobbing  courtesies  by  the  cottage-gates, 
and  wagons  of  late-gathered  hay  breathing 
"  odors  of  Araby"  as  they  crawl  by ;  "  how  sweet 


■Ml.. 


TUB  COLOXEL  AND  IIH  WIFE  AT  IIOMK. 


•10 


t  women.  IIuw 
(liiwii  KruvL'fiilljr 
liiivo  bi'on  un- 
thuir  liusliuii'la' 
1  nciiuaiutuiK'i't 
iiild  (iruvcnt  ilu 
^A  tiiiu  that  Ik' 
uimiii  wuiiUl  ii»i 
hu  latter  tnatxl 
I'illjj  tlio  hoiirv- 
{()  on,  Bu  kIiouIiI 
4piuluu!t  nniiiiul; 
I  urc  narrow,  hir 
>  nun  liavu  bi'iii 
out  uf  thuir  luvi. 

I  no  nioru  uiii-ii' 
ipl  to  warm  u|i  ;i 
vcr  wortli  imirli, 
tliu  worst  of  itil. 
\wy  will  tuko  all 
Btoo|)  to  I'Xtna't 

wliifli  will  burn 
[;Hod  to  the  Unlit 
unco  id  till!  bt*t 
\^  love  ;  and  the 
and  they'll  eonie 
with  the  lluek  of 
ful"  to  keep  litr 
<•■  ')n  by  this 

II  voet  anil 
i.\i)  poascsdcs  m 

on  her  part  is 

iddle-aHed  flanie 

giving  him  aii}' 

;e  other  men,  to 

honey-moon  (and 

ke  an  old  fool " 

her  feeling),  but 

sensible  manner 

him  to  treat  her 

)v  several  years. 

n — slio  docs  not 

to  acknowledge 

commence  their 

a  shawl  about 

upon  the  oppo- 

she  thanks  him 

;cr  man  "  off  Lis 

s ! "  she  says,  «» 
sheep,  and  rosy 
lie  cottage-gates, 
hay  breathing 
jy ;  "  liow  sweet 


tnd  clean  cvory  thing  look*  and  NmelU  I  I'lillip, 
I  lou;(  to  iteu  I  lie  gLii'den  ;  I  itiii  no  fond  of  llowur.'t. 
Do  you  reiiiembir  tho  lovely  bou'iuetii  y<in  lined 
to  .send  mu  in  l)i'u«iieU?" 

"  IVrfeetly,  my  darling"  (t'oloml  .Monliiiint 
ncldom  eitll.4  hii  wife  any  thing  but  "  darling,"  and 
the  word  lui«  eeaaiud  to  gratoon  liur  earit  ax  it  did 
at  llri«t,  ivealliiig  tho  lo.it  voiee  that  npoke  it 
once) ;  "  and  how  you  u«ed  to  turn  your  no.ie  up 
at  my  hiimldo  offerlngH." 

■■  I  never  told  you  ho,  rhilip ;  that  mu^t  bo  an 
luveniiou  of  your  own." 

"  rurlmps  I  divined  it,  Irene  ;  for  my  eyen 
were  very  keen  for  any  thing  that  coneeruod  you 
in  tlicHO  days." 

"  Well,  it  w  i!»  very  w  lekod  of  mo,  then,  an>l  I 
proinlHo  that  I  won't  turn  up  my  node  ut  the  tlrdt 
liouipiet  you  give  mo  from  Fen  Court." 

"  Vou  slmll  have  a  beauty  tho  very  first  thing 
ill  the  morning.  I  liope  the  garden  will  be  in  good 
m-jur — I  have  given  Hullleienl  dir.'ctions  on  the 
subject." 

"  Doesn't  Isabella  care  for  (lowers  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  I  think.  She  is  a  strange  creat- 
ure in  some  of  lier  ways.  I  sometimes  wonder, 
darling,  how  you  and  fhe  will  get  on  with  one 
another." 

"  Why,  admirably,  of  course — I  meuu  to  get 
on  with  her." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  turns  round  and  gazes  at 
his  wife  adoringly. 

"  You  are  too  good ! "  he  says ;  "  0  Irene  t  if  I 
don't  make  you  happy,  may  God's  jndgmeni — " 

"Hush!  hush!"  she  interrupts  him  quickly, 
"pray  don't  say  that,  you  make  mo  feel  so  small." 

But  see  how  much  less  than   a   woman  she 

would  have  been  not  to  care  for  him,  who  had 

I  taken  her  to  his  arms,  despite  his  knowledge  of 

her  outraged  affections,  and  treated  her  as  though 

I  she  had  flown  to  them  of  her  own  accord. 

She  does  not  love  him,  this  gallant  gentleman 
I  who  almost  worships  her,  but  she  is  very  grateful 
and  almost  happy,  and  bids  fair  to  make  a  model 
I  wife  and  mistress.  As  the  carriage  reaches  the 
I  entrance  to  Fen  Court,  and  rolls  up  the  broad 
[drive  through  tho  shrubbery,  she  becomes  quite 
I  excited  in  her  admiration. 

"  Is  this  ourt — really  ?  "  slio  exclaims,  inquir- 
|ingly. 

"  It  is  i/onrx,  my  own  darling,  every  inch  of 
|it!"  replies  her  husband. 

"  0  Philip ! "  and  in  her  delight  and  surprise 
Ishc  turns  and  kisses  him,  for  the  first  time  of  her 
I  own  accord. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  flushes  up  to  his  eyes  with 


gratilleation,  and  IhU  trilling  episodo  Iim  tho 
power  to  dispel  much  of  the  nervousness  with 
which  he  h:is  looked  forw.ird  to  iiitroilucing  hiit 
wife  to  Fin  t'ourt. 

"  ileru  wo  are,  at  hint!"  he  rsil.iims,  .is  iho 
carriage  Mtops  lutore  the  bold  porcli,  and  a  couple 
of  men-Nervants  appear  upon  the  door-step. 
"  'uiiip  down,  my  ilurling ;  Isabcll.i  is  sure  to  be 
waiting  for  you,  and  you  iiiiiflt  bo  tired  to  death 
with  this  long  drive." 

"  I  um  not  at  all  tir.'d,"  is  h.T  rejoinder ; 
"and  I  mean  to  see  every  bit  of  tlie  garden  beforo 
I  go  to  bed  to-night." 

Miss  Mordaunt  is  wailing  for  thiin  in  the  hall. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt !  I  came— I 
thought,  perhaps — I  didn't  know — " 

"  Did  you  not  cipect  us  so  soon  y "  replie.H 
Irene,  stooping  to  kiss  her  sister-in-law.  "  I  think 
wo  fuu'c  come  rather  quickly." 

"  l^uickly  ! "  echoes  Colonel  Mordaunt,  who  is 
close  upon  her  lieels ;  "  why,  we  have  been  hours 
on  the  road.  What  time  Lave  you  oidered  din- 
ner, Isabella  ?  " 

"  At  seven — at  least  I  believo  at  seven — but 
if  you  would  rather  not — " 

"  The  sooner  tho  better,''  says  her  brother ; 
"seven  will  do  admirably.  And  now  if  you  will 
take  IreiK'  •[>  to  her  bedroom  and  help  her  otf  with 
her  things,  I  think  Jt\f,q  will  be  obliged  to  you. — 
You  wor  't  dress  to-night,  darling  f" 

"Oh,  nol  Philip;  only  take  the  dust  off. 
What  a  wide  staircase,  and  such  pretty  carpets  ! 
Oh,  is  this  my  room  ?  it  is  beautiful.  IIow  nico 
and  fresh  it  looks.  And  blue,  too !  I  wonder  who 
chose  blue  ?  it  is  my  favorite  color." 

"  It  was  my  brother  who  ordered  it  to  bo  re- 
furnished with  this  color.  Can  I  help  you  off 
with  your  bonnet,  Mrs.  Mordaunt?  or  perhaps — 
if  you  had  rather  bo  alone — if  I  had  better  go — " 

"  Oh,  no !  don't  go!  I  shall  bo  ready  directly. 
But  why  do  you  not  call  me  by  my  Christian 
name  ?  Surely  we  are  not  to  be  '  Miss'  and  '  Mrs.' 
to  one  another  !  " 

"  If  you  wish  it — of  course — but  I  shouldn't 
have  thought — "  Miss  Mordauiit's  deprecating 
manner  is  already  casting  a  chill  over  Irene's  com- 
ing home. 

"  Since  we  are  to  be  sisters,  I  think  it  should 
bo  so,"  she  answers,  with  a  glance  of  scrutiny  at 
her  companion ;  but  she  is  not  so  eager  in  her 
manner  of  addressing  her  again,  and  it  is  a  relief 
to  hear  her  husband's  voice  asking  for  admit- 
tanco. 

"  Have  you  every  thing  you  want — are  you 
quite  comfortable  ? — Isabella,  where  is  Mrs.  Que- 


■m 


f 
S"|] 


(m 


il  !. 


<H 


\f 


liii 


!    '    '   i  ■  ivii 


!:;■ 


00 


'NO  INTENTIONS." 


kett?I  tlioiigbt  she  would  bo  lioi'o  to  welcomo 
Irene  to  Fen  Court." 

Miss  Mor'.li\unt  tokgruplia  a  look  of  meaning 
to  her  brotlier — it  is  very  .slight,  but  Irene  catches 
it,  and  feel.s  itnmodiatcly  that  there  is  poniething 
to  be  concealed. 

"Who  is  Mrs.  Quckctt?"  she  demands  ab- 
ruptly, looking  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Tlie  house-keeper — "  commences  Jliss  Mor- 
daunt. 

"  Well,  hardly  a  house-keeper,  Isabella,  al- 
though she  certainly  does  keep  house  for  us," 
interrupts  her  brother. 

"  She  does  keep  house  for  you,  and  yet  she 
is  not  your  house-keeper,"  says  Irene,  merrily ; 
"she  must  bo  an  anomaly,  this  Mrs.  Quekett. 
Piiij  is  she  young  or  old,  fat  or  thin,  wise  or 
foolish  ?  though,  after  what  you  have  just  said, 
Philip,  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  to  hear  she 
is  all  of  them  put  together." 

"  You  arc  a  saucy  girl,  nnd  don't  deserve  an 
answer ;  but  when  you  come  to  kno'v  her,  you 
v.ill  acknowledge  that  Mrs.  Quekett  is  a  very 
wonderful  woman,  and  can  be  almost  any  thing 
she  chooses.  When  I  said  she  was  hardly  a 
house-keeper,  I  meant  she  was  superior  to  the 
pl.ace.  But  she  lived  mapy  years  with  my  father 
in  that  capacity,  and  has  always  had  a  home 
v/ith  me  since  his  death.  You  will  find  her  a 
great  help  to  you,  darling,  for  I'm  sure  you  can- 
not know  much  about  house-keeping  ;  and  I  hope 
you  will  get  on  very  well  together." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  it ;  I  alwaj'S  get  on  well 
with  servants  ;  that  is,  if  they  keep  their  places. 
But  with  regard  to  house-keeping,  Philip,  I  in- 
tend to  agreeably  surprise  you.  I  know  much 
more  than  you  imagine,  and  mean  to  make  my- 
self perfect.  I  always  thought  I  should  like  to 
have  a  large  house  like  this  to  look  after,  and  to 
keep  in  spick-span  order.  1  like  pretty  things, 
but  the  romance  of  untidiness  never  held  any 
charms  for  me.    I  was  cut  out  for  an  old  maid." 

"It  is  lucky  for  me,  darling,  that  we  met 
before  you  had  made  up  your  min  1  unalterably 
tipon  that  subject,"  says  Colonel  Mordaunt,  laugh- 
ing, as  he  draws  her  arm  within  his  own  to  lead 
her  to  the  dining-room.  "But,  hoivcver  good  a 
manager  you  may  be,  I  am  sure  you  will  find 
Mrs.  Qudkett  an  admirable  jpsistant,  to  say  the 
very  least  df  it.  She  has  been  always  used  to 
iiianage  the  household  r.flfairs,  and,  were  I  you, 
I  should  leave  them  in  her  hands.  Why  should 
you  trouble  your  head  about  such  matters,  whcii 
I  can  afford  to  keep  some  one  to  do  U  for  you  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Quekett  will  have  plenty  to  do,  Philip. 


I  did  not  mean  that  I  should  riso  with  tlio 
lark  each  morning  to  call  the  maids,  or  walk 
about  in  the  trail  of  the  broom  and  dust-pan,  to 
see  that  they  do  their  duty  ;  but  I've  no  opinion 
of  a  mistress  who  loaves  her  work  to  the  servants. 
Have  you  ?  " 

At  these  words  Isabella  again  steals  one  of 
those  furtive,  mutual-understanding  glances  at 
Colonel  Mordaunt,  with  an  expression  that  rouses 
not  only  Irene's  curiosity,  but  her  spirit,  and  slic 
does  not  wait  for  an  answer  to  her  question : 

"  At  all  events,  I  mean  to  try  and  make  mj. 
self  equal  to  the  position  you  have  placed  me  in, 
Philip,"  she  continues. 

"  And  you  would  be  so,  my  darling,  a  thousand 
times  over,"  ho  whispers,  fondly,  "even  had  I 
placed  you  on  a  throne." 

This  conversation  gives  a  brief  insight  to  the 
state  of  mind  in  which  Irene  enters  on  the  per- 
formance of  her  new  duties.  The  glances  whicL 
she  intorccptet"  between  her  sister-in-law  and  her 
husband  do  no*,  give  her  more  than  a  moment's 
uneasiness,  while  they  strengthen  her  purpose  of 
self-dependence. 

She  misinterprets  their  meaning :  she  imagines 
they  arose  from  their  doubt  of  her  capability  to 
maintain  her  position  as  mistress  of  Fen  Court; 
and  she  becomes  determined,  in  consequence,  to 
prove  that  they  are  mistaken.    From  the  hour  \ 
she  accepted  Colonel  Mordaunt's  proposal,  and 
fixed  her  thoughts  upon  a  future  shared  with  him, 
Irene  has  experienced  more  pleasure  liom  the  i 
prospect  of  having  the  entire  management  of  the 
household  at  Fen  Court  upon  her  hands  than  anv  | 
thing  else. 

For,  in  order  to  fight  successfully  with  disap- 
pointment, or  even  to  fight  at  all,  we  must  have  I 
some  definite  employment.    A  man  generally  has 
a  business  or  profession   to  engross   his  loyal 
thoughts  and  shut  the  door  in  the  face  of  all  the 
rebel  ones  (though  what  a  knack  they  have  of 
peeping  through    the  chinks !) ;   with   him  tlie 
grinding  necessity  of  making  bread,  either  for 
himself  or  others,  is  paramount,  and  leaves  little 
leisure  for  painful  introspection.    It  is  not  that  I 
he  feels  the  less  for  being  busy ;  it  is  that  he  has  I 
less  time  to  feel.     The  female  sex  has  in  all  ago?,  [ 
most  undeservedly,  gained  credit  for  being  tbe  | 
more  constant  of  the  two ;  but,  though  they  mourn  J 
more  explosively,  their  grief  is  neither  so  bitter  I 
nor  so  long.     A  man  and  woman  who  love  each  I 
other  are  irrcvcoably  separated :  what  happens  to  I 
them  ?     He  seldom  speaks  of  his  loss  to  any  one; 
if  he  docs,  it  is  in  short,  sharp  sentences,  that  are  I 


A  MORNING  RAMBLE. 


51 


rise  with  tlio 
aaids,  or  walk 
nd  dust-pan,  to 
I've  no  opinion 
to  tlic  servants. 

n  steals  one  of 
in;];  glances  at 
sion  tliat  rouses 
r  spirit,  and  she 
r  question : 
'  and  make  mv- 
,'c  placed  nie  in, 

rling,  a  thousand 
V.  "even  had  I 


ef  insight  to  tlic 
ters  on  the  per- 
le  glances  whicb 
cr-in-law  and  her 
than  a  moment's 
m  her  purpose  of 

ing:  she  imagines  | 
her  capability  to 
ss  of  Fen  Court ; 
1  consequence,  to 

From  the  hour 
t's  proposal,  and 

shared  with  him, 
leasure  liom  the 

inagement  of  the  | 
T  hands  than  any 

ifully  with  disap- 
.11,  ve  must  have  I 
nan  generally  has  I 
igross   his  loyal 
he  face  of  all  the  | 
ck  they  have  of 
with   him  tlic- 1 
bread,  cither  for 
and  leaves  little 
It  is  not  that 
it  is  that  he  has 
jshasin  all  ages,! 
dit  for  beingtbej 
lOugh  they  mourn 
neither  bo  bitter  I 
in  who  love  each  I 
what  happens  to  I 
sloss  to  any  one;! 
entenccs,  that  an  I 


(lismis-pd  as  soon  as  possible  :  and  he  goes  about 
Ilia  work  as  usual ;  worries  his  head  over  the  led- 
ger in  his  couuting-Iiouso  ;  strains  every  nerve  to 
outwit  the  counsel  for  the  other  side  ;  conducts 
three  or  four  services  a  day,  or  sits  up  all  night 
writing  for  the  press.  Kvery  now  and  then, 
doubtless,  a  sad  thought  comes  between  hiui  and 
his  employment ;  he  sees  lier,  or  hears  of  her,  or 
the  remembrance  of  something  they  have  shared 
in  the  past  smites  hiiu  with  sudden  pain  ;  but  he 
puts  it  away :  he  tnnst  put  it  away,  if  he  is  to 
pursue  the  business  which  depends  upon  his  brain, 
or  hand,  or  skill.  Where  is  the  woman,  mean- 
while, who  mourns  him,  poor  wretch,  as  hopelessly 
(I  have  no  wish  to  detract  from  tlic  sex's  capabil- 
ity of  loving)  as  only  a  woman  can  '! 

Sitting  by  the  fire,  most  likely,  if  it  is  winter, 
or  lying  on  her  bed  if  it  is  summer,  with  a  novel 
in  her  liaud,  or  a  piece  of  fancy-work,  and  all  her 
mind  fixed  upoL  her  absent  lover :  ready  and  will- 
in;;  to  talk  over  i'.<fi  cruelty  of  her  disappointment 
witli  the  first  friend  who  calls :  crying  till  she  can 
liardly  see  out  of  her  eyes:  refusing  to  attend 
[•ny  party  of  pleasure  (women  think   giving  up 
bulls  and  theatres  and  concerts  an  immense  proof 
of  constancy;   they  don't   understand  how  the 
lightest  laughter  is  often   used   to  conceal   the 
I  heaviest  hearts) ;  even  refusing  to  eat :   sitting 
down,  in  fact,  with  her  dead  love  in  her  lap,  de- 
termined to  nurse  it  and  weep  over  it,  and  recall 
all  she  has  lost  with  it,  until  she  makes  herself 
I  first  hysterical  and  then  useless,  and  lastly  ill,  and 
a  worry  to  every  one  connected  with  her.     Our 
friends  die,  and  we  bury  them.     Why  can't  we 
bury  the  corpses  of  our  dead  hopes  in  the  same 
way  ?    The  regret  we  fool  for  those  whom  we 
I  have  lost   by  death   is   sad   enough   and  sharp 
I  enough,  God  knows,  as  it  returns  in  the  silent 
I  watches  of  the  night,  or  even  amid  the  clamor- 
I  ous  hurry  of  the  day ;  but  what  would  it  not  be 
I  were  we  to  keep  those  still  forms  ever  beside  us, 
jto  prevent  all  hope  of  sorrow  sinking  into  natural 
Isleep?    Yet,  that  is  what  most  women  do  with 
Itlieir  blighted  affections  ;  and  many  of  them  ex- 
Iperienee   actual  disappointment  when   they  dis- 
Icovcr  that  Time  has  mercifully  closed  the  wound, 
land  they  are  "  getting  over  it."     They  keep  it  open 
las  long  as  they  possibly  can  ;  they  tear  the  band- 
lage  away,  which  opportunity  affords  them;  and 
Iwhen  the  healed  spot  is  no  longer  capable  of  lacer- 
lation,  they  will  sit  down  and  begin  to  cry  afresh 
lover  their  own  inconstancy.     And,  perhaps,  when 
Ithey  have  reached  this  epoch,  the  man  is  still  ex- 
periencing those  occasional  sharp,  cruel  stabs  of 
t'emembmnce  which  are  all  tiic  worse  to  bear  be- 


cause they  come  so  seldom,  and  the  flesh  is  un- 
used to  them. 

Rut  if  women  were  brought  up  to  work  like 
men  (in  other  kind,  jierhaps,  but  with  the  s:inic 
necessity),  active  employnient,  either  of  br;>if.  or 
hand,  would  place  the  sexes,  in  this  matti'i',  on  a 
level ;  and  while  nuieh  needless  misery  would  be 
spared  to  the  one,  a  large  amount  of  comfort 
would  accrue  to  the  other;  for,  of  all  persons 
with  whom  to  shun  intercourse  in  this  life,  give 
me  the  flabby  thing  which  calls  itself  a  woman 
who  has  had  "a  disappointment''' — as  though 
there  were  no  disappointment  in  the  world  l)ut 
that  which  springs  from  love  turned  sour  with 
adversity,  like  small-beer  by  thunder. 

Irene  has  never  been  a  woman  utterly  without 
a  purpose.  In  her  early  girlhood,  and  before  she 
experienced  any  necessity  to  gamble  with  life  for 
forgetfulness,  she  was  accustomed  to  look  ujjan 
each  day  in  which  she  had  done  nothing  as  a  day 
to  be  regretted.  She  used  to  read  much  at  that 
time,  not  desultorily,  but  on  a  fixed  plan ;  and 
she  would  allow  no  pleasure,  however  tempting, 
to  lure  her  from  her  self-imposed  task  until  it  was 
accomplished.  She  took  a  very  uright  interest  in 
polities  ;  in  the  projects  of  improving  the  condi- 
tion of  the  nation  at  large,  and  all  new  discoveries 
whether  in  art,  science,  or  Nature ;  attempted, 
also,  as  most  able  minds  do,  to  put  down  her 
thoughts  on  all  these  things  in  writing,  but  was 
quite  satisfied  with  the  ample  variety  of  mental 
food  which  ancient  and  modern  literature  placed 
before  her,  and  never  had  the  least  desire  to  cram 
her  own  ideas  down  the  throiits  of  others.  In 
fine,  until  the  unfortunate  moment  arrived  in 
which  she  met  Erie  Keir,  Irene  was  a  happy,  help- 
ful, mattor-of-fact  wonuin ;  and  though  the  two 
blows  which  she  received  so  close  together  did  for 
a  wliile  crush  life's  purpose  out  of  her  and  blur 
her  vision  of  a  noble  and  elevated  future,  it  is  all 
coming  back  to  her  now  as  she  finds  herself  mis- 
tress of  Fen  Court,  and  the  mists  that  obscured 
her  duty  are  clearing  away  from  before  her  eyep. 
To  make  her  husband's  house  what  it  should  bo 
(and  what  Colonel  Mordaunt  has  already  deplored, 
in  her  hearing,  that  it  is  not),  one  of  the  best-ap- 
pointed and  pleasantcst  houses  in  the  county ;  to 
render  herself  an  agreeable,  favorite  hostess  ;  to 
be  the  ruler  of  his  household,  thfl  friend  of  liis 
tenants,  and  the  benefactor  of  the  poor  who  are 
dependent  on  him — this  is  the  path  which  she  has 
chalked  out  for  herself,  and  in  which  she  is  reso- 
lute to  walk.  Some  women  think  it  beneath  them 
to  make  their  husband's  homes  comfortable. 
They  want  to  deliver  lectures  like  Emily  Faith- 


;^i^ 


»',.:»_. ..L-'i  ^iiAvi'iikil.- 


;v...^.Jfc. 


52 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


'i       h; 


■  ^ 


;U 


^ar 


%<^' 


\M    I'*^: 


full,  or  write  books  like  Misi.  Riddell,  or  compose 
songs  like  Eliziibcth  Philip,  or  play  Juliet  like 
Mrs.  Scott  Siddons  ;  and  if  they  are  not  permitted 
to  labor  through  the  medium  of  the  stage,  the 
platform,  or  the  press,  their  mission  is  wrested 
from  them :  there  is  nothing  m'      to  live  for. 

Irene  Mordau'it  knows  bi.ier.  She  knows 
that  if  genius  is  not  required  to  keep  the  machin- 
ery of  a  large  establishment  in  working  order, 
good  sense  is ;  and,  however  capable  and  far- 
seeing  and  practical  her  head  may  be,  it  is  none 
too  much  so  for  the  worthy  employment  of  the 
large  sums  of  money  that  must  annually  pass 
through  her  hands.  She  dees  not  think  the  work 
beneath  her ;  she  feels  like  a  queen  entering  up- 
on her  territory  ;  and  as  her  husband,  when  their 
dinner  is  ended,  makes  the  tour  with  her  of  his 
possessions,  she  notes  with  a  keen  eye  where  im- 
provement is  most  needed,  and  registers  inward 
vows  to  be  faithful  to  the  trust  committed  to  her. 
The  knowledge  of  her  responsibility  works  on 
Irene  like  a  charm :  her  spirits  rise ;  her  eyes  be- 
come brighter,  her  pulses  beat  more  healthfully, 
and  she  retires  to  rest  full  of  expectation  for  the 
coming  morrow.  Such  arc  some  of  the  good  ef- 
fects of  realizing  that  there  is  work  left  in  the 
world  to  do  which  no  one  can  accomplish  so  well 
ns  ourselves.  Had  Irene  remained  at  Laburnum 
Cottage  with  Mrs.  Cavendish,  she  might  have 
continued  to  be  a  lovesick  maiden  to  this  day ; 
as  it  is,  the  task  which  she  has  undertaken  with 
a  sincere  intention  of  fulfilling,  will  lift  her,  step 
by  step,  above  the  earth-stained  troubles  of  this 
world,  until  she  has  reached  the  highest  elevation 
her  mortal  nature  is  capable  of  attaining. 

She  wakes  in  the  morning,  fresh  as  a  flower, 
and  active  as  a  squirrel.  She  has  not  opened  her 
eyes  two  seconds  before  she  has  thrown  up  the 
casement  and  is  inhaling  the  sweetness  of  the 
noisette  roses  that  cluster  round  it.  The  pure, 
cool  country  air  is  like  a  draught  of  life ;  the 
scented  flowers  arc  hanging,  six  and  eight  up- 
on one  stem ;  across  the  meadow  comes  the 
lowing  of  the  cows  as  they  return  from  the  milk- 
ing-shcd,  and  the  bleating  of  the  calves,  that  wel- 
come them ;  and  underneath  her  are  the  garden- 
ers, sharpening  their  scythes  to  mow  the  dewy 
lawn.  The  freshness,  the  sweetness,  the  simplici- 
ty, the  peace  of  all  around  her,  wake  the  deepest 
gratitude  in  Irene's  heart,  and  make  the  tears 
rise  to  her  eyes.  She  is  all  anxiety  to  mingle 
agaiA  in  the  scenes  that  lie  before  her;  to  re- 
trace her  footsteps  of  last  night,  and,  make  sure 
that  it  was  all  reality ;  and,  before  Colonel  Mor- 


daunt  has  realized  that  she  has  left  him,  she  ii 
up  and  dressed,  and  roiuning  over  the  wet  grass, 
and  through  the  shvubberios  and  [burdens,  whence, 
at  sound  of  the  brcakfuat-bcll,  she  ruappcarn, 
with  rose-tinted  cheeks,  damp  boots,  a  draggled 
muslin  dress,  and  her  hands  full  of  flowers.  Iler 
husband,  now  looking  one  way  and  then  the  oth- 
er, is  on  the  door-step,  anxiously  awaiting  her. 

"  My  darling ! "  he  commences,  reproachfullv. 

"Now,  rhilip,  don't  scold  !  I  know  I'm  a  hor- 
rid object,  but  it  won't  take  me  a  minute  to 
change.  I've  been  all  through  the  hot-houses, 
and  the  kitchen-gardens,  and  down  tJio  wilder 
ness,  and  over  the  bridge  by  that  piece  of  water; 
and  then  I  got  into  a  field  and  found  lots  of 
mushrooms.  (Do  you  like  mushrooms  ?  they're 
in  my  skirt,  under  the  flowers.)  And  I  caino 
back  by  the  meadows  you  showed  me  last  niglit, 
where  the  horses  are,  and — oh !  I  am  so  tircil  I 
and  wet ;  but  I  haven't  enjoyed  any  thing  like  it 
for  months  past." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  looks  as  though  he  w  ert  | 
enjoying  the  recital  as  much  as  she  has  done  tbt 
reality 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  says,  as  U  i 
kisses  her ;  "  but  you  can  come  iu  to  brcakfati  I 
as  you  are,  can  you  not  ?  " 

"What!  with  my  hair  half-way  down  nivj 
back,  and  my  dress  clinging  to  rac  like  a  wttj 
flag?  I  should  scarcely  look  dignified  at  tliej 
head  of  your  table,  Philip.  Give  me  ten  minutes' 
grace,  to  set  myself  to  rights. — Good-morning. 
Isabella.  I  have  not  a  hand  to  offer  you,  but  l| 
have  had  such  a  delightful  ramble." 

Then  she  turns  to  the  servant  in  attendance. 

"  Take  these  flowers,  James,  and  place  theitj 
on  the  sideboard  ;  and  bring  up  the  breakfast.-j 
Have  you  been  used  to  make  the  tea,  Isabella! 
Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  do  so  for  one  mominj 
more,  in  consideration  of  the  novelty  of  the  situ  [ 
ation  ? — I  will  be  in  good  time  to-morrow,  Philip:] 
but  I  had  no  idea  the  place  was  half  so  lovek 
and  I  ran  from  one  delight  to  another,  and  couio| 
not  tear  myself  away." 

She  is  mounting  the  staircase  now,  still  at-j 
tended  by  her  husband ;  and  Miss  Mordaur.;| 
looks  after  her  with  unfeigned  surprise, 
young  and  strange — and  yet  so  cool  and  at  IicJ 
ease!  The  woman  who  has  spent  all  her  life  i:l 
fear,  lest  she  should  be  saying  or  doing  somcthic: 
wrong,  cannot  understand  the  confidence  whli: 
is  engendered  by  the  knowledge  of  our  or.\ 
powers  of  pleasing.  In  another  minute  Irene  i| 
down  again,  her  hair  rearranged,  and  her  drcsl 
exchanged  for  a  wrapper  of  pale  blue,  which  i!| 


liie^i^i^AU^w^^^  -:^ 


IRENE  AS  MISTRESS  OF  FEN  COURT. 


53 


If-way  dovNTi  my  I 

)  lue  like  a  wet 

dignified  at  the 

me  ten  minutes' 

■Good-mominc.  | 

offer  you,  but  I 

le." 

it  in  attendance, 
and  place  tlieitl 
iLe  breakfast.-! 
he  tea,  Isabella; 
for  one  inorniiie| 
vclty  of  the  site- 
j-morrow,  Pbilip: 
s  half  so  lovely  I 
lother,  and  coulil 

ase  now,  still  at| 
Misa  Mordaur.;! 
1  surprise.  ^A 
cool  and  at  1k:| 
mt  all  her  life  iJ 
r  doing  somethir.:! 
confidence  whii-l 
dge  of  our  or.l 
minute  Irene  i[ 
;d,  and  her  diciij 
le  blue,  which  i-'l 


wonderfully  becoming  to  lier;  and  as  her  sister- 
in-law  Bees  her  smile,  and  lioiirs  her  talk,  and 
watches  her  do  all  tlic  iionors  of  the  brcakfa.st- 
tiiblc  ns  though  she  had  aut  there  for  years,  slie 
marvels  how  so  briglit  an  apparition  can  ever 
have  been  persuaded  to  link  her  fortunes  with 
tiiose  of  Pliilip,  and  take  up  her  residence  at  Fen 
Court. 

"  Wliat  are  you  going  to  do  to-daj-,  Philip  ?  " 
says  Irene,  as  the  meal  draws  to  a  conclusion. 

Colonel  Mord.aunt  has  already  risen  from  ta- 
ble, and  taken  up  his  station  on  the  hearth-rug. 

"  Well,  that  depends  mostly  on  yourself,  my 
darling.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  do,  of  course, 
after  two  months'  absence,  about  the  kennel  and 
the  farm ;  but  I  should  hardly  like  to  leave  you 
alone  so  soon." 

"  But  I  shall  have  Isabella,  and  plenty  of  em- 
ployment. There  arc  all  my  things  to  bo  un- 
packed; and  the  new  m.aid  seems  stupid;  so  I 
shall  go  and  supoiintend  her ;  and  I  have  the 
dinner  to  order,  and  the  kitchen  to  inspect,  and 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  What's-her- 
nainc." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  starts. 

"  Mrs.  Quekett !  Ah  !  true ;  I  should  like  to 
introduce  Mrs.  Quekett  to  you  before  I  go  o>it, 
Irene.  She  is  such  a  very  old  servant  of  the 
family." 

"  All  right,  dear.  Ring  the  bell,  and  tell  her 
to  come  up  now.    I  am  quite  ready  to  see  her." 

Again  does  Isabella  raise  deprecating  eyes  to 
her  brother's  face.  Something,  which  the  unsus- 
pecting bride  is  sure  to  resent,  must  come  to  the 
surface  before  long,  and,  man-like.  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt tries  to  throw  the  responsibility  of  the  ."''- 
closure  on  his  sister's  shoulders. 

"  Oh ! —  ah  ! — yes  :  to  bo  sure !  I  suppose 
Mrs.  Quekett  will  be  able  to  see  Irene  now,  Isa- 
bella?" 

The  mere  question  throws  Miss  Mordaunt  in- 
to a  state  of  extra  flurry. 

"I  don't  know,  Philip — I  know  so  little,  you 
see.  I  am  sure  I  cannot  say.  Perhaps  you  had 
better— but  if  Mrs.  Mordaunt  could  wait — it  is  no 
use  to  ask  me." 

"  Is  the  old  woman  ill  ?  "  demands  Irene.  It 
is  the  only  solution  of  the  apparent  mystery  she 
can  imagine. 

"Bless  you,  no!  as  well  as  you  are,"  says  her 
husband,  forgetting  the  inexpediency  of  the  con- 
fession ;  "  only  used  to  rise  late.  She  has  had 
no  mistress,  you  know,  my  darling,  and  you  must 
take  some  excuses  for  her  in  consequence ;  but 
—there,  I  hope  to  goodness  you  will  get  on  well 


together,  and  have  no  quarrels  or  disagreements 
of  any  sort." 

"  Quarrels,  Philip,  with  the  servants !  —  you 
uced  have  no  fear  of  that.  If  Mis.  Quekett  has 
not  yet  risen,  I  can  easily  give  my  orders  for  to- 
day to  the  cook  :  I  suppose  she  is  efficient  and 
trust-worthy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  only,  don't  you  think  that  it  would 
be  better,  just  at  first,  you  know,  to  leave  things 
us  they  are,  and  let  Quekett  manage  the  dinners 
for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  Philip ;  I  don't.  I  think  were  I  to  do 
so,  that  I  should  be  very  likely  never  to  gain  any 
proper  authority  among  ray  servants ;  and  I 
should  rather  begin  as  I  intend  to  go  on.  I  see 
you  have  not  much  faith  in  my  house-keeping," 
she  continues,  gayly ;  "  but  you  have  never  had 
an  opportunity  of  judging  my  powers.  Wait  till 
this  evening.    M'hat  time  shall  we  dine?  " 

"  When  you  choose,  my  darling :  but  seven 
has  been  the  usual  hour.  I  think,  Isabella,"  turn- 
ing to  his  sister,  "  that,  as  Irene  says,  it  will  be 
better  for  her  to  give  her  dinner  orders  this 
morning  to  the  cook  :  what  do  you  s.ay  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me,  Philip  ;  it  must  be  just  as 
you  please :  only,  what  will  Quekett  think  ?  " 

"  You  can  explain  the  matter  to  her,  surely  ; 
and  by  to-morrow  she  will  be  acquainted  with 
Irene.  Perhaps  she  had  better  not  see  her  until 
I  return.     I  will  come  back  to  lunch." 

"  What  a  fuss  about  nothing ! "  says  Irene, 
laughing.  "  My  dear  Philip,  one  would  think  I 
had  never  had  the  management  of  any  servants 
before.  I  see  how  it  is — the  old  house-keeper  is 
jealous  of  my  coming,  and  you  are  afraid  she 
may  let  mo  see  it.  Well,  then,  have  no  fears :  I 
will  talk  her  out  of  her  jealou.sy,  and  we  shall  be 
the  best  of  friends  by  the  time  you  return." 

"  Who  could  resist  you  ?  "  replies  the  enam- 
ored colonel,  as  he  embraces  his  wife,  and  leaves 
the  room, 

"  Now,  the  very  first  thing  I  want  to  see, 
Isabella,"  says  Irene,  rising  from  her  chair,  "  is 
the  drawing-room  ;  for  people  will  be  coming  to 
call  on  me  by-and-by,  you  know,  and  I  never 
fancy  a  sitting-room  till  I  have  arranged  it  ac- 
cording to  my  own  taste.  Will  you  come  with 
me  ?  You  must  let  me  be  very  exigeantc  for  the 
first  few  days,  and  keep  you  all  to  myself." 

For  this  expression  of  interest,  to  which  she 
is  so  unaccustomed,  Isabella  Mordaunt  feels  very 
much  inclined  to  cast  her  arms  about  the  speak- 
er's neck  and  thank  her ;  but  her  natural  ner- 
Tousness  rises  uppermost,  and  she  only  looks 
foolish^nd  uneasy. 


m 
m 


■% 


i.;VJ 


04 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


■iii 


Li': 


). 


commences 
liiisin};  the 


"  The  iliawlng-room  ! — well,  I  hardly  know — 
of  course  ii  is  no  business  of  mine — but  I  think 
It  is  loclccd." 

"  Locked ! — don't  you  use  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  often — that  is  to  say,  only  m  hen  we 
have  a  dinner-party." 

"  Oh,  I  mean  to  use  it  every  day,  and  make  it 
the  pretlieat  room  in  tlic  house.  Let  ua  go  and 
Inspect  it  at  once.  Who  has  the  key? — Quc- 
kett  ? " 

"  I  believe  so — I  am  not  sure," 
Miss  llordaunt.  Irene  answers  by 
bell. 

"  James,  desire  Mrs.  Quekctt,  or  whoever  has 
the  key  of  the  drawing-room,  to  send  it  down  to 
me." 

There  is  a  delay  of  several  minutes,  and  then 
the  footman  reappears,  with  the  key  in  his  hand, 
and  a  comical  expression  in  his  face,  half  of 
pleasure,  and  half  of  fear,  as  though  a  battle  had 
been  found  necessary  in  order  to  achieve  his  pur- 
pose, but  that  ho  rather  liked  the  warfare  than 
otherwise.  Irene  thrusts  her  arm  through  that 
of  her  sister-in-law,  and  leads  her  off  in  triumph. 

"  Shocking !  Horrible ! "  is  her  verdict,  as  the 
glories  of  the  Fen  Court  drawing-room  come  to 
view.  "  My  dear  Isabella,  how  could  you  al- 
low tilings  to  remain  like  this  ?  No  flowers — no 
white  curtains — and  all  the  furniture  done  up  in 
brown  holland,  as  though  wc  had  gone  out  of 
town  !  The  first  thing  we  must  do  is  to  strip  off 
those  horrid  covers.     TVhere  is  the  house-maid  ?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt" — Isabella  can- 
not yet  pluck  up  courage  to  address  her  sister- 
in-law  by  any  other  name — "  she  thinks — that  is, 
Mrs.  Quekett  thinks — they  are  quite  necessary 
for  the  preservation  of  the  damask." 

"  And  /think  them  quite  unnecessary,"  retorts 
Irene,  merrily. — "  Here,  Anne ;  take  off  these 
covers ;  strip  the  muslin  off  the  chandeliers,  and 
open  all  the  windows.  The  room  feels  as  though 
a  corpse  had  been  laid  out  in  it !  What  a  fine 
piano ! — that  must  come  out  into  the  middle  of 
the  room." 

"  It  has  always  stood  against  the  wall,"  says 
Isabella. 

"  Then  I  am  sure  it  is  quite  time  it  had  a 
change.  Oh  I  what  a  lovely  thing  for  flowerij ! " 
seizing  an  old  basin  of  embossed  silver  which 
stands  on  the  floor ;  "  what  is  this  rubbish  in  it  ? 
— rose-Ioa^res  ? — Turn  them  out,  Anne,  and  put 
the  bow^l  on  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room. 
^Vnd,  f top ! — take  all  the  vases  away  at  the  same 
time :  I  never  keep  a  vase  in  sight  unless  it  is 
filled  with  flowers." 


"  Yes,  ma'am ;  but,  please,  what  am  I  lo  do 
with  these  dead  leaves  "/  " 

"  Throw  them  away." 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  only,"  lnoking  toward  Miss 
Mordaunt,  "  Mrs.  Quekett  placed  them  here,  you 
know,  miss ! " 

"  Yes ;  to  be  sure ;  so  she  did.  ^  liardly 
know.  Mis.  Mordaunt,  whether  you  ought — " 

"  To  throw  away  Quckett's  rose-leaves  5  " 
with  a  hei'.rty  laugh  ;  "  well,  perhaps  not ;  so  you 
can  return  them  to  her,  Anne,  if  you  choose: 
only  please  to  relieve  my  bowl  of  them  as  soon  as 
possible." 

Then  she  flits  away,  altering  tiie  dispositiou 
of  the  chairs  and  tables ;  discarding  the  orna- 
ments which  she  considers  in  bad  taste ;  scatter- 
ing music  on  tlie  open  piano,  books  and  work  upon 
the  table,  and  flowers  everywhere — doing  all  that 
a  woman  can,  in  fact,  to  turn  a  commonplace  find 
dull-looking  apartment  into  a  temple  of  fanciful 
grace  and  beauty. 

"  Come,  that  is  a  little  better !  "  she  exclaims 
at  last ;  "  but  it  will  bear  any  amount  of  improve- 
ment yet.  Flowers  are  the  thing,  Isabella ;  you 
can  make  even  an  ugly  room  look  nice  with 
plenty  of  flov.'er3 ;  and  there  arc  really  beautiful 
things  here.  It  shall  be  a  very  picture  of  a  room 
before  the  week  is .  out.  And  now  to  my  diniar 
— I  had  nearly  forgotten  it.  That  old  woman 
must  be  up  by  this  time." 

"  It  is  only  just  eleven,"  replies  Miss  Mor- 
daunt. 

"As  much  as  that !  "  with  a  look  of  dismay; 
"my  dear  Isabella,  I  shall  be  all  behindhanil, 
and  when  I  have  been  boasting  to  Philip !  I 
must  see  Quekett  at  once  in  the  morning-room, 
and  then  we  will  arrange  our  plans  for  the  day." 

She  flies  to  the  morning-room — a  pleasant 
little  apartment  next  the  dining-room,  which  is 
to  bo  dedicated  to  her  use — and  pulls  the  bell 
rather  vigorously  in  her  haste. 

"  James,  desire  Mrs.  Quekett  to  come  up  to 
me  at  once." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  replies  James,  and  retires,  in- 
wardly chuckling.  He  reads  the  character  of  his 
new  mistress,  and  views  with  unholy  delight  do- 
mestic differences  looming  in  the  distance. 

"  Won't  there  be  a  row ! "  he  remarks,  as  tlie 
house-maid  goes  unwillingly  to  deliver  the  mes- 
sage at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Quckett's  room. 

Now,  as  it  happens,  Mrs.  Quekett  is  up  and 
stirring :  for  curiosity  to  see  the  bride  has  over- 
powered her  natural  indolence  ;  but  she  has  npt 
quite  completed  her  toilet,  and  the  unwelcome 
information  that  she  is  to  "  go  down-stairs  at  onco 


DOMESTIC  DIFFICULT] ES. 


hat  am  I  to  dc 


ng   lowiud  Miss 
them  here,  yoii 

dill.  ^  liurilly 
on  ought — " 
j  rose-loaves  ? " 
haps  not ;  so  you 
,  if  you  choose : 
F  them  as  soon  as 

the  di.spositiou 
rding  the  orna- 
d  taste;  scattcr- 
:a  and  work  upon 
e — doing  all  that 
;ommonplaee  and 
imple  of  faneifu! 

I- 1 "  she  exclaims 
lount  of  improvc- 
ig,  Isabella ;  you 
look  nice  with 
!  really  beautiful 
picture  of  a  room 
low  t,o  my  dinner 
riiat  Old  wojr.an 

Implies  Miss  Mor- 

look  of  dismay; 

all  behindhand, 
g  to  Philip  !  I 
e  morning-room, 
ans  for  the  day." 
)om — a  pleasant 

room,  which  is 
pulls  the  bell 

,  to  come  up  to 

,  and  retires,  in- 
character  of  his 

iholy  delight  do- 
distance, 
remarks,  as  tlie 

leliver  the  vats- 
"s  room. 

3kett  is  up  and 
bride  has  over- 

>ut  she  has  npt 
the  unwelcome 

wn-stairs  at  on« 


and  take  her  orders  from  the  new  missus  iu  the 
nioruin;^-room "  does  not  tend  to  promote  her 
alacrity. 

Another  ten  minutes  have  elapsed,  when  Irene 
rings  the  bell  again. 

"  llavc  you  delivered  my  message  to  the  house- 
keeper ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  and  she's  just  coming  down 
the  stairs  now." 

"  She  must  be  a  little  quicker  another  time," 
bis  mistress  murmurs.  She  feels,  prophetically, 
that  she  is  about  to  have  trouble  with  this  "  old 
servant  of  the  family,"  and  she  determines  at  once 
to  assert  her  authority  as  head  of  her  husband's 
household. 

Mrs.  Quekett  enters ;  Irene  looks  up,  meets 
her  eye,  and  feels  at  once  that  they  are  enemies. 
There  is  something  in  the  woman's  glance  and 
m.inncr,  even  in  this  first  interview,  that  savors 
so  much  of  insolent  familiarity,  that  her  indigna- 
tion is  roused,  and  she  can  hardly  speak  to  her 
without  evincing  it. 

"  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  ma'am,"  says  Mrs. 
Quekett,  sinking  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you ! "  replies  Irene, 
choking  down  her  wrath  and  trying  to  remember 
all  her  husband  has  told  of  the  faithful  services 
of  the  creature  before  her.  "  I  have  sent  for  you, 
Quekett,  to  take  the  orders  for  the  dinner.  We 
are  rather  late  this  morning  " — glancing  at  her 
watch — "  but,  as  it  is  the  first  time,  it  is  perhaps 
excusable." 

"Ah!  I  manage  all  that,  ma'am;  you  will 
have  no  trouble  about  the  dinners.  I've  pleased 
the  colonel  and  his  father  before  him  for  over  a 
matter  of  thirty  years,  and  as  I've  begun  so  I 
shall  go  on.  My  cook  gives  me  more  trouble 
than  she  ought  to  do,  but  I  shall  get  rid  of  her  at 
Michaelmas,  if  not  before,  and  try  one  from  Lon- 
don instead.  They're  better  taught  than  these 
country-women.  You're  from  London  yourself, 
arn't  you  ?  " 

Under  this  address  Irene  sits  for  a  moment 
stupefied.  She  can  hardly  believe  she  is,  listen- 
ing to  a  servant  speaking.  She  has  never  been 
used  to  hear  the  domestics  in  her  parent'5  house 
address  her  but  in  the  most  deferential  tones; 
and,  as  she  realizes  that  it  really  is  the  house- 
keeper who  sits  before  her,  her  blood  boils  with 
indignation,  and  the  look  she  raises  should  have 
withered  Mrs.  Quekett  in  her  chair. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  keep  to  the  matter  in 
hand,"  she  answers,  loftily.  "  I  intend  to  Rive 
my  own  orders,  Mrs.  Quekett,  and  it  will  be  your 
place  to  transmit  them  to  the  other  servants.    I 


shall  very  soon  be  able  to  judge  what  the  cook 
can  do,  and  to  decide  on  the  necessity  of  parting 
with  her  or  not.  Meanwhile,  wo  will  speak  about 
the  dinner." 

She  runs  through  the  list  of  dishes  rnpidly, 
names  the  hour  at  which  she  desires  the  meal  to 
be  served,  and  enjoins  the  strictest  punctuality  on 
the  astonished  house-keeper. 

"And  to-morrow  morning,"  says  Irctie,  as 
she  rises  from  her  chair,  "  I  nuist  request  you 
will  bo  in  this  room  by  ten  o'clock,  to  receive 
my  orders — and,  if  I  am  not  here,  you  can  wait 
for  me.  I  shall  go  over  the  kitchens  and  lower 
offices  this  afternoon.  Let  the  servants  be  pre- 
pared to  receive  me.  And  —  one  woid,  Mrs. 
Quekett ;  I  have  not  been  accustomed  to  see 
servants  sit  down  in  my  presence." 

With  that  she  sails  out  of  the  room  with  the 
air  of  an  oflfended  queen. 

Mrs.  Quekett  is  not  subdued,  but  she  is  en- 
raged beyond  measure.  She  turns  purple  and 
gasps  in  the  chair  where  her  new  mistress  has 
left  her ;  and  it  takes  a  great  deal  of  bottled  por- 
ter and  a  great  many  stewed  kidneys  that  morn- 
ing to  restore  her  to  any  thing  like  her  usual 
equanimity. 

"  Wait  about  here  till  it  pleases  her  to  come 
and  give  mo  her  orders !  Xot  for  the  highest 
lady  in  Christendom  would  I  do  it,  and  I'm  sure 
I  sha'n't  for  her.  She  may  give  her  orders  to 
the  cook,  and  welcome.  I  don't  stir  out  of  my 
bed  for  any  one  until  I'm  inclined  to  do  it.  And 
not  sit  down  in  her  presence,  indeed !  I  must 
speak  to  the  colonel  about  this.  Matters  must  be 
settled  between  the  colonel  and  nie  before  this 
day  closes." 

And  so,  in  truth,  they  must  have  been,  to 
judge  from  the  forlorn  and  h('ni)ecked  appear- 
ance with  which  the  colonel  enters  his  wife's 
dressing-room  that  evening  before  retiring  to  bed. 
He  has  passed  a  very  happy  day,  for  Irene  hao 
not  confided  the  little  domestic  trouble  of  the 
morning  to  him;  she  has  thought  that  she  will 
fight  tho  ignoble  battle  by  herself,  and  that  no 
servant  will  presume  to  make  a  few  quietly- 
spoken  words  of  caution  a  pretext  for  appealing 
to  her  master's  judgment;  but  she  is  mistaken. 
Colonel  Mordaunt  has  been  enduring  a  very 
stormy  half-hour  in  that  study  of  his  before  mak- 
ing his  escape  up-stairs,  and  the  vision  of  a  peace- 
ful married  life  has  fled  before  it  like  a  dream. 
He  eomes  up  to  Irene's  side,  looking  quite  fagged 
and  worn  out,  and  older  by  ten  years  than  be  did 
in  the  morning.     She  notices  it  at  once. 

"  My  dear  Philip,  how  tired   you   must  be  I 


If 
,|y 


B6 


"NO  INTENTION'S.' 


i    i, 


,  ■.  ■   - 

p',;   1 

1       .-, 

'r^^ ' 

L 

fri 

You  have  boon  exerting  yourself  too  much  after 
our  long  jouracy  yesterday." 

"  I  nm  only  worried,  my  darling.  What  is 
this  row  between  you  and  Quckctt?  I  did  so 
hope  you  would  have  been  able  to  get  on  with 
the  old  woman," 

"  Ilas  she  been  complaining  to  you  1 " 

"  She  came  into  my  study  just  now — i<hc  has 
been  used  to  have  a  talk  with  mo  occasionally  in 
the  evenings — and  told  rac  what  had  happened. 
She  is  very  much  put  out  about  it,  naturally." 

"  So  was  I  put  out  about  it — naturally  I  But 
I  didn't  immediately  bring  my  troubles  to  you, 
Philip,  though  I  conclude  I  have  more  right  to 
your  sympathy  than  a  servant  can  have." 

"How  did  it  happen?" 

"  Nothing  happened.  If  Mrs,  Quckctt  is  vexed 
— which  she  did  not  intimate  to  me — I  suppose 
it  is  because  I  told  her  I  intended  to  give  the 
household  orders  in  future.  I  dare  say  she  has 
had  a  great  deal  of  liberty ;  but  that  kind  of  tiring 
can't  go  on  when  a  man  marries." 

"  Of  coui-se  not — and  I  hope  she  will  come 
round  to  see  it  in  that  light  after  a  time.  But 
she  says  she  would  rather  you  gave  your  orders 
to  the  cook  instead  of  her.  You  won't  mind 
that,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all — I  shall  prefer  it ;  for,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  don't  quite  like  your  Mrs.  Quckctt, 
Philip  ;  her  manners  arc  too  familiar  and  assum- 
ing to  please  me." 

"  Remember  how  long  she  has  been  with  us  ; 
old  servants  are  apt  !o  forget  themselves  some- 
times." 

"Do  you  think  so?  My  mother  had  a  lady's- 
maid  who  had  been  with  her  since  her  marriage, 
and  only  left  us  for  a  home  of  her  own  ;  she  never 
addressed  me  except  by  name,  nor  thought  of 
sitting  down  in  my  presence,  though  she  had 
known  me  from  my  birth." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  grows  fidgety. 

"  Well,  dear,  I  think  the  best  way  will  be  for 
you  and  Quckctt  to  see  as  little  of  one  another  as 
possible.  She  hos  been  accustomed  to  a  great 
deal  of  consideration  from  us  (rather  more,  per- 
haps, than  the  occasion  warrants),  and  I  dare  say 
she  does  feel  a  little  jealous,  as  you  suggested,  of 
your  coming  here,  and  monopolizing  all  the  atten- 
tion. But  it  will  wear  oEf  by-and-by.  Don't  you 
think  so  ?  "—wistfully. 

"I  don't  understand  scrv.ints  being  jealous  of 
their  mistresses,  Philip.  But  if  Mrs,  Quckett 
and  I  arc  not  to  meet,  what  is  the  use  of  our 
keeping  her  ?  After  all,  I  sha'n't  want  a  house- 
keeper.   Let  her  go." 


But  at  this  piece  of  rank  blasphemy  her  hus- 
band looks  almost  horrified. 

"  My  dear  child,  do  you  know  what  you  are 
talking  about  ?  Why,  she  has  bceu  with  us  for 
the  last  thirty  years." 

"No  reason  she  should  remain  thirty  morr. 
I  don't  like  her,  Philip,  and  I  never  shall." 

"  Hush !  Pray  don't  say  that.  I  urn  sure  you 
will  grow  to  like  her." 

"  I  am  sure  I  sha'n't." 

"  You  have  not  had  a  proper  opportunity  yet  1 
of  judging  of  her  character." 

"  I  liave  seen  quite  enough  of  it.    If  I  were  j 
superstitious,  Philip,  I  should  think  that  woman 
possessed  the  evil  eye — at  all  events  for  me." 

"  What  nonsense,  my  darling !  I  thought  you 
were  too  clever  to  talk  like  that.  AVhy,  if  Que- 
kett  were  to  leave  Fen  Court,  I  should  think -the 
whole  house  was  going  to  topple  down  on  our 
heads  ! " 

"  And  so  you  wouldn't  get  rid  of  her,  even  for 
me?"  whispers  Irene,  with  the  most  insinuating 
of  upward  glances, 

"  What  is  there  I  wouldn't  do  for  you  ?  "  her 
husband  answers ;  and  for  a  few  moments  de- 
livers himself  up  to  the  charm  of  realizing  that  he 
has  secured  the  desire  of  his  heart.  But  whin 
he  leaves  her  to  herself  again,  the  cloud  returns 
to  his  brow,  and  his  soul  is  disquieted  within  hini. 
He  feels  that  he  is  living  on  a  volcano  which  is 
even  now  trembling  beneath  his  feet,  and  may  at 
any  moment  erupt  in  flames  of  malice  and  revenge 
which  shall  bring  destruction  in  their  train.  Ills 
life  is  scarcely  more  enviable  than  that  of  Eric 
Keir.  Each  man  walks  the  world  with  a  heavy 
secret  in  his  breast. 

It  is  August.  The  harvest  is  nearly  all  gath- 
ered in,  and  every  one  is  looking  forward  to  Sep- 
tember. Irene  has  issued  her  first  invitations  for 
the  shj.otingseason :  one  to  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Cav- 
enilish,  and  her  daughter  Mary,  another  to  Mr. 
Pettingall — who  is  most  anxious  to  see  his  young 
friend  In  her  new  position — and  a  third  to  some 
bachehi.'  acquaintances  of  her  husband's,  whom 
Colonel  Mordaunt  assures  her  she  will  find  de- 
lightful. In  fact,  the  house  is  to  be  full;  and 
Irene  is  quite  excited  at  the  prospect  of  entertain- 
ing so  many  guests.  She  flits  about  from  room 
to  room,  followed  by  the  meek  Isabella,  and  issu- 
ing her  orders  without  the  slightest  regard  to  the 
feelings  of  the  great  Mrs.  Quekett.  Not  that 
Irene  has  forgotten  Mrs.  Quekett  during  the  past 
month,  or  forgiven  her.  The  more  fact  of  the 
house-keeper's  refusal  to  receive  her  orders  scrveJ 


ii^xS 


.'  ,■  „iC?fc'iUi£i''i-J-^iiJti^'A*'>^  j:i-.i;.'JO 


AN  UNWELCOME  LETTER. 


57 


phomy  her  hiis- 

V  what  you  nrc 
•ecu  with  us  fur 

.in  thirty  more. 
cr  shall." 
I  am  sure  vou 


opportunity  ytt 

r  it.  If  I  were 
ink  that  woman 
nts  for  me." 
!  I  thought  you 
.  Why,  if  Quf. 
ihould  think 'the 
lo  down  on  our 

I  of  her,  a'cnfor 
nost  insinuating 

0  for  you  1 "  her 
3W  moments  dc- 
realizing  that  he 
cart.  But  wlan 
ic  cloud  returns 
ietcd  within  him. 
Folcano  which  is 
feet,  and  may  at 
ilice  and  revenge 
their  train.  His 
lan  that  of  Eric 
Id  with  a  heavy 


nearly  all  gatli- 
forward  to  Sep- 
t  invitations  for 
aunt,  Mrs.  C.iv- 
anothcr  to  Mr. 
to  see  his  young 
a  third  to  sorce 
lusband's,  whom 
he  will  find  de- 
to  be  full;  and 
icct  of  entertain- 
bout  from  room 
iabella,  and  is#u- 
ist  regard  to  the 
kett.  Not  that 
during  the  past 
loro  fact  of  the 
ler  orders  serves 


to  keep  her  memory  alivo  In  hor  mistress's  bosom 
oud  to  make  tho  Intercourse  between  thorn  purely 
nominal.  Together  they  arc  frigidly  polite  to  one 
another ;  and  apart  they  arc  doterminatcly  ho.^tile. 
Irene  has  ceased  to  make  any  comment  on  the 
housc-kopper's  behavior  or  to  express  any  desire 
for  hor  dismissal ;  she  has  scon  and  hoard  enough 
during  her  residenco  at  Fon  Court  to  convince 
lier  that  to  pursue  either  course  is  futile,  but  she 
does  what  is  far  more  galling  to  Mrs.  Quckett's 
pride — she  ignores  her  presence  altogothor.  She 
makes  no  calls  upon  her  duty :  she  neither  blames 
n.)r  praidc.i  her — she  simply  acts  as  though  there 
were  no  such  person  in  the  house.  So  Rebecca 
Qiiekctt  continues  to  lie  abed  until  noon,  and  to 
feed  off  the  best  of  tho  land,  and  twist  her  master 
round  her  little  flngor ;  but  the  servants  no  longer 
tremble  at  her  presence;  she  has  lost  tho  abso- 
lute  authority  she  held  over  thorn — she  has  been 
tran.sforraed  from  a  captious  tyrant  into  an  in- 
jured but  faithful  servitor;  and  she  takes  good 
care  to  drum  tho  fact  into  the  coloners  ears,  and 
to  hate  the  one  who  has  brought  about  the 
change.  Yet  little  does  Irene  reck  her  annoyance 
or  her  hate;  she  con.sidcra  tho  presence  of  the 
housn-keoper  at  Fen  Court  as  an  intolerable  nui- 
sance, and  often  wonders  how  her  husband,  who 
can  be  so  firm  in  some  things,  should  be  so  weak 
in  this  ;  but  consoles  herself  with  tho  idea  that 
no  lot  in  this  world  is  entirely  without  its  annoy- 
ances, and  that  she  might  have  cacountorcd  a 
worse  skeleton  in  the  closet  tha'.i  Mrs.  Quckctt. 
Whether  the  colonel  would  have  agreed  with  her 
it  is  impossible  to  say.  And  so  we  bring  them 
up  to  the  latter  days  of  August. 

One  morning  Colonel  Mordaunt  receives  a  let- 
ter which  seems  greatly  to  disturb  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Philip  ?  "  demands 
Irene. 

"  Nothing  that  concerns  you,  my  darling  ! — 
nothing,  in  fact,  at  all." 

Yet  ho  sits,  with  knitted  brows,  brooding  over 
the  contents  of  the  epistle  during  the  rest  of 
breakfast,  and  reads  it  through  three  or  four 
times  before  the  meal  is  concluded.  As  Irene 
leaves  the  room,  he  calls  his  sister  to  his  side. 

"  Isabella,  I  am  greatly  annoyed.  Here  is  a 
letter  from  Oliver.  He  has  heard  of  an  opening 
for  a  practice  soraewhero  in  this  neighborhood, 
and  proposes  coming  down  to  speak  to  me  about 
it." 

"  He  can't  expect  to  stay  here,"  says  5Iiss 
Mordaunt — "  at  least  I  should  hardly  think  so — 
there  will  not  be  room  for  him,  you  know.  The 
house  will  be  full  next  week." 


"  If  he  sleeps  at  tho  inn  it  will  bo  all  the  same. 
I  don't  want  Irene  and  him  to  nicet," 

"  Have  you  never  nienlionud  Oliver  to  her 
then  ?  "  (lemamls  his  sister,  timidly. 

"  Cursorily  I  may,  tiiough  I  doubt  if  shu  will 
renionibor  it.  IJut  it  is  not  that,  Lsabelhi.  You 
know  woll  enough  that  if  I  introduco  young  Rals- 
ton to  Irene,  it  will  be  dillioult  to  ex[)lain  why  I 
don't  ask  him  to  tho  court." 

"  And  you  think  ho  miglit  not  fom>.>.  It  is 
nearly  a  year  since  he  has  boon  hero." 

"Good  God!  You  have  not  the  blightost 
perception.  If  Oliver  comes  here,  ho  must  sec 
Quokett ;  and  you  know  they  never  meet  wllliout 
a  disturbance  of  some  sort ;  and  in  her  present 
state  of  fooling  toward  Irene  I  couldn't  risk  it. 
There  is  no  knowing  what  she  might  not  say." 

"  Tlion,  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  " 

"  Tut  off  Oliver  till  Quokett  goes  to  town. 
If  she  wore  away,  I  should  have  no  fear.  Doesn't 
she  intend  to  pay  her  usual  visit  to  Lady  What's- 
hor-name  this  autumn  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  —  I  am  almost  afraid  sho 
doesn't.  I  was  speaking  to  hor  about  it  yester- 
day ;  hut  she  has  not  been  herself  at  all  lately — 
she's  quite  —  crotchety,"  says  Miss  Mordaunt ; 
as  though  crotchotiness  were  an  entirely  new 
phase  in  Mrs.  Quekett's  character. 

"  Moans  to  stay  hero  on  purpose,  I  suppose, 
because  she  knows  we  want  tlie  house  to  our- 
scles.  Isabella,  I  often  wish  I  had  taken  Ircno 
abroad  again.  I  question  whether  it  would  not 
be  worth  my  while  to  take  up  a  residence  there, 
even  now.  She  likes  Continental  life,  and  I — 
well,  any  life  almost  would  bo  preferable  to  this. 
I  live  in  constant  dread  of  an  exi)loslon." 

"  Wouldn't  it " — commences  Miss  Mordaunt, 
timidly — "  wouldn't  it  be  better,  Philip — of  course 
you  know  best — but  still  I  can't  help  think- 
ing-" 

"  What  ? — what  ? "'  he  interrupts,  impatiently. 

"That  if  you  were  to  tell  her—" 

"  Irene  !  " — tho  color  fades  out  of  Colonel 
Mordaunt's  face  at  the  bare  idea  —  "  to  tell 
Irene  ?  Why,  Isabella,  you  must  be  mad  to  think 
of  it ! " 

They  arc  engaged  out  to  a  dinner-party  that 
evening ;  a  very  grand  dinner-party  given  by  Sir 
Samuel  and  Lady  Grimstonc,  who  live  at  Calver- 
ley  Park,  about  twelve  miles  from  Priestley,  and 
consider  themselves  of  so  much  importance  that 
they  never  even  loft  their  cards  at  Fen  Court 
until  they  heard  that  the  owner  had  brought 
home  a  wife  to  do  the  honors  there.    For,  al- 


?<is 


m 


i 


"irl 


i' 


>  -  I  'in 

m 


as 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


i\' 


■,  'i  Ll 


11 ;  I  r; 


li^ 


though  Colonel  Mordiuiiit,  as  roaster  of  the  rries't- 
Icy  foxhounds,  holdd  an  iiuiiortuut  position  in  the 
county,  nnd  is  on  visitinj{  tcniia  with  tliu  best 
liouBL'S  in  the  nei|jliborhood,  his  poor  nicuk  sister 
has  hitliurto  been  coiiiplottly  overloolieii. 

"  A  Binnle  woiiinn,  my  dour  1" — an  Ludy  Grim- 
(stone  rcnia'Ived,  wlion  giving  lessons  on  tlic  inex- 
pediency of  forming  useless  ucquuintanecs,  to  lier 
newly-married  daugliter,  Mrs,  Kustaeo  Lennox 
Jones — "  II  single  woman,  in  order  to  gain  u  pass- 
port to  soeiety,  should  be  either  beautiful,  aeeoni- 
plished,  or  eleven.  If  she  can  look  handsome, 
or  sing  well,  or  talk  smartly,  she  amuses  your 
other  guests ;  if  not,  she  only  fills  up  the  plaec 
of  a  belter  person.  Nothing  is  to  bo  had  for 
nothing  in  this  world  ;  and  wc  must  work  for  our 
social  as  well  as  our  diiily  bread." 

"  But,  why  then,  mamma,"  demanded  on  that 
occasion,  Mrs.  Eustace  Lennox  Jones,  "  do  you 
invite  Lady  Arabella  Vane  ?  I  am  sure  she  is 
neither  young,  beautiful,  nor  witty  ;  and  yet  you 
made  up  a  party  expressly  for  her  last  time  she 
was  in  Triestley." 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  you  forget  how  wealthy  she 
Is,  and  how  well  connected.  'With  three  unmar- 
ried girls  on  my  hands,  I  could  never  afford  to 
give  up  the  tntrie  of  her  house  in  town.  Besides, 
she  has  brothers!  No,  my  dear  Everilda,  learn 
where  to  draw  the  line.  The  great  secret  of  suc- 
cess in  forming  an  agreeable  circle  of  aequaint- 
nnccs  is  to  exclude  the  useless  of  either  sex." 

And  so  poor  Miss  Mordaunt  has  been  excluded 
bitherto  as  utterly  useless,  as  in  good  truth  she 
is  ;  but  my  Lady  Grimstone  has  been  obliged  to 
include  her  in  the  invitation  to  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom. A  young  and  pretty  bride,  fresh  from  the 
hands  of  the  best  society  and  a  first-rate  milliner,  is 
no  mean  acquisition  at  a  country  dinner-table ;  bet- 
ter than  if  she  were  unmarried,  especially  where 
there  arc  three  daughters  still  to  dispose  of. 
And  the  useless  single  woman  must  needs  come 
in  her  train.  It  is  a  great  event  to  Isabella, 
though  she  is  almost  too  shy  to  enjoy  the  pros- 
pect, and  the  kindness  with  which  Irene  has 
helped  and  advised  her  concerning  her  dress  for 
the  occasion  has  made  her  feel  more  inwardly  in- 
dignant against  Mrs.  Quekett,  and  more  afraid 
of  that  amiable  creature's  tongue  than  she  has 
CTcr  been  before.  Colonel  Mordaunt,  too,  who 
expects  to  meet  several  influential  supporters  of 
his  favorite  pursuit,  has  been  looking  forward  to 
the  evening  with  unusual  pleasure  and  with  great 
pride,  at  the  thought  of  introducing  his  young 
wife  to  his  old  friends ;  he  is  all  the  more  disap- 


point'J,  therefore,  when,  after  a  long  day  spent 
in  the  harvest-fields,  he  returns  homo  to  find 
Irene  lying  down  with  a  face  as  white  as  chalk, 
and  a  pain  in  her  head  so  acute  that  t>hc  canu'jt 
open  her  eyes  to  the  light,  nor  speak  beyond  u 
few  words  at  a  time. 

"  It  is  so  btupid  of  me,"  she  murmurs,  in  ru. 
ply  to  his  expressions  of  concern ;  *'  but  I  aui 
sure  it  will  go  off  by-aud-by." 

Isabella  brings  her  strong  tea,  and  she  sit^ 
up  and  forces  herself  to  swallow  it,  and  feels  at 
though  her  head  would  burst  before  the  feat  were 
accomplished. 

"  I  think  it  must  be  the  sun,"  she  says,  in  c.t- 
planation  to  her  husband.  "I  felt  it  very  lioi 
upon  my  head  this  afternoon,  and  the  pain  canio 
on  dirtctly  afterward.  Don't  worry  yourself 
about  it,  I'hilip ;  we  need  not  start  till  six.  I 
have  a  full  hour  in  which  to  rest  myself,  and  1 
am  sure  to  be  better  before  it  is  time  to  dress." 

When  that  important  moment  arrives,  .slio 
staggers  to  her  feet,  and  attempts  to  go  throu(;li 
ihe  process  of  adornment;  but  her  heart  is 
stouter  than  her  limbs ;  before  it  is  half  com- 
pleted,  she  is  seized  with  a  deadly  sickness  and 
faintness,  which  prove  beyond  doubt  that  she  is 
<iuite  unfit  for  any  further  exertion  that  night; 
and  reluctantly  she  is  obliged  to  confess  that  slic 
thinks  she  had  better  remain  at  home. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  stay  with  you  ! "  says 
her  husband,  who  is  quite  put  out  of  conceit  with 
the  coming  entertainment  by  the  knowledge  that 
she  cannot  accompany  him ;  "  but  I  suppose  i' 
would  never  do  for  us  all  to  turn  defaulters." 

"Assuredly  not,"  says  Irene.  "You  will  en- 
joy it  when  you  get  there,  Philip,  and  I  shall  do 
very  well  here,  lying  on  the  sofa,  with  Phoebe  to 
look  after  me,  and  most  likely  be  quite  recovered 
by  the  time  you  return.  That  is  the  annoying 
part  of  these  sudden  attacks.  You  generally  be- 
gin to  revive  at  the  very  moment  when  it  is  too 
latT  td  do  so." 

"  Any  way,  I  couldn't  take  you  as  you  arc 
now,"  /cplies  Colonel  Mordaunt,  "  for  you  lool; 
perfectly  ghastly.  Well,  I  suppose  it  is  time  we 
should  be  off.  Bother  these  stupid  dinners  ! — I:-a- 
bella,  are  you  ready  ? — Phoebe,  take  good  care 
of  your  mistress. — Au  revoir,  my  darling."  And 
with  that  he  steps  into  the  carriage  with  his  sis- 
ter, and  they  drive  away  to  Calverley  Park.  So 
my  Lady  Grimstone,  much  to  her  ladyship's  dis- 
gust, only  gets  her  "  useless  single  woman,"  after 
all. 

"  I  am  much  better,"  says  Irene,  two  houri 


'.tU^^-.-^i'tAl^iL.i  ■■ 


A  SURPIUf«E. 


loi)^  (lay  epciit 

,4    llOIIlO    to    fillj 

wliitu  aa  clialk, 
tliut  t>lic  canii'jt 
Bpc'iik  bcyuiid  u 

iiiunnurs,  in  it- 
ni ;  "  but  I  am 

ca,  and  bIic  slu 
'  it,  and  ft'citt  a:i 
ji'C  tlio  feat  were 

'  bLo  says,  in  ix- 
felt  it  very  hot 
1  the  pain  came 
worry  yourself 
Bturt  till  six.  I 
jst  myself,  ond  I 
time  to  dress." 
ent  arrives,  i^liu 
s  to  go  tlu'ou);!: 
ut  her  heart  is 
!  it  is  balf  com- 
lly  siekncFS  and 
loubt  that  she  is 
•tion  that  night; 
confess  that  she 
home. 

>  ith  you  ! "  says 

it  of  conceit  with 

knowledge  tliat 

3ut  I  suppose  i' 

defaulters." 

"  You  will  en- 
I,  and  I  shall  do 
with  Phabe  to 
quite  recovered 
is  the  annoying 
ou  generally  be- 
when  it  is  too 

you  as  you  are 
"for  you  look 
se  it  is  time  wc 
d  dinners ! — Isa- 
take  good  care 
darling."  And 
ge  with  his  Bi=- 
erley  Park.  So 
ladyship's  dis- 
c  woman,"  after 


rene,  tw^o  houri 


after,  OH  she  opons  her  cyoi  at  the  entrance  of 
lioi' maid.  "  Wh.it  o'clDck  is  it,  I'lin'be?  have  I 
liuen  oslei'p  V " 

"  It's  closu  upon  hull'-])ust  seven,  nia'uin ; 
and  you've  been  aaleop  for  more  than  two  hours. 
1  was  tliat  pleased  wiiun  I  heard  you  snore ;  I 
was  sure  it  would  do  you  good." 

'•  How  romantic  !  "  lauglis  her  mistress  ;  "  but 
I  suppose  one  may  bo  excused  for  snoring,  when 
one's  head  i:^  a  mass  of  pain  and  buried  under  three 
i-ufa-cu.-ihions.  What  a  tumbled  heap  I  have 
Ijuen  lying  in  :  and  I  foel  as  confused  as  though 
I  had  been  asleep,  like  Kip  Van  Winkle,  for  a 
Imndred  years.  What  is  that  you  have  tliero, 
rh(ebe?  ("olTec !  Give  it  mo  without  milk  or 
I  sugar.  It  is  the  very  thing  I  wanted.  And 
throw  that  window  wide  open.  Ah !  what  a 
heavenly  coolness !  It  is  like  breathing  new 
I  life." 

"  Let  me  fetch  your  brush,  ma'am,  and  brush 
I  through  your  hair.  You'll  feel  ever  so  much  bet- 
ter after  that  I  I  know  so  well  what  these  head- 
aches as  come  from  the  sun  are.  Your  head  is 
just  bursting  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  you  feels 
as  siok  as  sick;  and  then  of  a  suddent  it  all  goes 
o.Tand  leaves  you  weak  like  ;  but  well — " 

"  That  is  just  it,  I'ha'be,"  says  Ireno,  smiling 
I  at  tho  graphic  description  ;  "and  all  that  I  want 
to  set  me  up  again  is  a  little  fresh  air.  Make  me 
I  tidy,  and  give  me  my  hat,  and  I  will  try  what  a 
I  turn  in  the  garden  will  do  for  mo.  No  ;  don't  at- 
I tempt  to  put  it  up;  ray  head  is  far  too  tender  for 
I  that;  and  I  shall  see  no  one." 

So,  robed  in  a  soft  muslin  dress,  v/ith  her  fair 
I  hair  floating  over  her  shoulders,  and  her  garden 
I  hat  swinging  in  her  hand,  Irene  goes  down  the 
Istaircasc,  rather  staggeringly  at  first,  but  feeling 
■  less  giddy  with  each  step  sho  takes,  and  out  into 
I  the  Fen  Court  garden.  She  turns  toward  the 
Ishrubbery,  partly  because  it  is  sequestered,  and 
[partly  because  there  are  benches  there  ou  which 
I  sho  loves  to  sit  and  listen  to  the  nightingales 
Isinging  in  the  plantation  beyond. 

It  is  a  very  still  evening ;  although  the  sun 
Ihas  so  long  gone  down.  Scarcely  the  voice  of 
Ibird  or  insect  is  to  be  heard,  and  the  rich  August 
Iflowers  hang  their  heads  as  though  the  heat  had 
Iburned  all  their  sweetness  out  of  them,  and  they 
I  had  no  power  left  wherewith  to  scent  the  air. 
I  But  to  Irene,  risan  from  a  feverish  couch,  the 
Istillness  and  tho  calm  seem  doubly  grateful;  and 
las  she  saunters  along,  silently  and  slowly,  for  she 
I  feels  unequal  to  making  much  exertion,  her  foot- 
jeteps  leave  no  sound  behind  them. 

Sho  enters  the  shrubbery,  which  is  thick  and 


sitiialeil  at  sotno  little  di.stanco  fiom  the  hounv, 
and  walks  toward  her  favorite  tree,  an  a;;ed  holly, 
which  shelters  a  very  comfortable  modern  bench 
of  iron.  What  is  her  surprise,  ou  reaching  the 
spot,  to  find  it  Is  not  at  her  di.-po.sal  ?  Tho  fig- 
ure  of  a  man,  with  the  back  of  his  heail  toward 
her,  is  stretched  very  comfortably  the  length  of 
tho  seat,  while  he  pours  forth  volumes  of  smoke 
from  a  meerschaiun  in  front. 

Irene's  first  thought  is  to  biMt  a  retreat:  is 
not  her  baek  hair  guiltless  of  ribJKjn,  net,  or 
comb?  Hut  the  surprise  oecanioned  by  encoun- 
tering a  strange  •  where  she  least  cxpeeted  to  do 
so  has  clieiteii  a  'Hllo  "  Oh ! "  from  her,  which 
has  cauglit  his  ear.  lie  looks  round,  leaps  oil  his 
seat,  and  in  another  moment  is  standing  before 
her,  very  red  in  the  face,  with  his  wide-awake  in 
his  han<l,  and  his  meerschaum  smoking  away  all 
by  itself  on  tho  shrubbery  bench. 

Both  feel  they  ought  to  say  something,  and 
neither  knows  which  should  begin  first.  Aa 
usual,  in  most  cases  of  difiiculty,  woman  wins  the 
day. 

"Pray  don't  let  mo  disturb  you,"  she  com- 
mences, though  without  the  least  idea  if  he  has 
any  right  there.  "  I  am  only  taking  a  little  walk 
through  the  shrubbery  ;  you  need  not  move  1 " 

"It  is  I  that  should  apologi/,.  for  trespassing, 
although  I  am  not  aware  to  whom  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  speaking,"  he  answers,  and  then  stops, 
waiting  for  a  clew  to  her  identity,  lie  is  a  good, 
honest-looking  fellow,  of  three  or  four  and  twen- 
ty, with  bright  blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  the  color 
usually  called  "  sandy  ; "  not  very  distinguished 
in  appearance,  perhaps,  which  idea  is  strength- 
ened at  first  sight  by  the  rough  stylo  of  dress  in 
which  he  ia  attired,  and  tho  "  horsey  "  look 
about  his  breastpin,  tie,  and  watch-chain.  And 
yet,  there  is  something  in  the  face  that  is  turned 
toward  her  (notwithstanding  that  an  inflamed  look 
about  the  eyes  and  cheek-bones  tells  tales  of  a 
fast  life) ;  something  of  respectful  admiration  for 
herself,  and  delicacy  lest  ho  should  h.ave  offended 
by  his  presence,  that  wins  Irene's  liking,  even  at 
this  very  early  stage  of  her  acquaintance  with 
him. 

"Perhaps  you  know  Colonel  Mordaunt,  or 
were  waiting  here  to  see  him,"  she  goes  on  some- 
what hurriedly ;  "  but  he  is  not  at  homo  this  even- 
ing." 

"  I  do  know  Colonel  Mordaunt,"  replies  the 
stranger,  "  and  that  he  is  from  home.  But,  ex- 
cuse me,  is  it  possible  I  can  bo  addressing  Mrs, 
Mordaunt  ?  " 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Mordaunt,"  says  Irene,  simply. 


r'"l 

I'm 


■■■Ci: 


eo 


"  NO  INTKNTIONS." 


i  f  I 


h 


"My  iincl.>'rt  wifr!" 

"  Your  utick- !  Is  my  liiiKlmnd  yotir  unolo  V " 
In  hor  piirpi'lMo  slu'  ninvcM  ii  few  ,»t('|is  ncuri  r 
hlni.     "  Hut  wliat,  tlicn,  in  yoiir  lumic  V  " 

"Ollvor  Ilnliitun  ;  at  yourgorvlco,  iimiliiin,"  lie 
angwerH,  luti^'hltif^. 

"  Kiilntoii !  oh,  of  course,  I  have  hcaid  Philip 
«ppok  of  you.  I  rcnicinlier  It  tli^itinrtly  now  ; 
but  it  wag  some  time  a^o.  I  am  vory  jrlad  to  sec 
you.     How  do  you  do  y  " 

And  then  tlicy  shako  hands  and  say  "  How  do 
you  do  SI"  to  i-ach  otiicr  in  the  absurd  and  aini- 
U'i-s  manner  wo  are  wont  to  u.«e  on  nicctin;:,  al- 
thoujih  we  know  quite  well  how  eaeli  one  "  does  " 
before  our  mouths  are  opened. 

"But  why  did  you  not  come  to  tho  house, 
Mr.  Ralston  ?  "  continues  Irene,  presently.  "  I 
do  !iot  think  Colonel  Mordaunt  had  any  idea  of 
your  arrival.  lie  has  gone  with  his  sister  to 
dine  at  tho  Grimstones.  I  should  have  gone  too, 
cxce[)t  for  a  racking  headache." 

"  It  is  evident  you  have  not  heard  much  about 
me,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  or  you  would  bo  aware  that 
I  have  not  tlic  free  run  of  Fen  C(}urt  that  you 
seem  to  imagine." 

"  Of  your  own  uncle's  house  ?  What  iion- 
Bcnse !  I  never  could  believe  that.  IJut  why, 
then,  are  you  in  the  shrubbery  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  j'ou  frankly,  if  you  will  permit  me. 
I  am  an  orphan,  ond  have  been  under  the  guardian- 
ship of  my  unele  ever  sinoo  I  was  a  baby,  I  am 
n  medical  student  also,  and  have  held  the  post  of 
house-surgeon  at  one  of  tho  London  hospitals 
for  some  time.  London  doesn't  agree  ■with  me, 
morally  or  physically,  and  I  have  a  great  desire 
to  get  some  practice  in  the  country.  I  heard  of 
something  that  might  suit  mo  near  Priestley, 
yesterday,  and  wrote  to  my  uncle  concerning  it. 
Afterward  I  was  told,  if  I  wished  for  success,  I 
must  lose  no  time  in  looking  after  the  business 
myself.  Ho  I  ran  down  this  morning  and  put  up 
at  the  '  Dog  and  Fox,'  and,  as  I  heard  tho  Fen 
Court  people  were  all  going  out  to  Calvcrley  Park 
to  dinner  (indeed,  the  carriage  passed  mo  as  I  was 
loitering  about  the  lanes,  some  two  hours  since), 
I  thought  I  might  venture  to  intrude  so  far  as  to 
smoke  my  pipe  on  one  of  the  shrubbery  benches. 
This  is  a  true  and  particular  confession,  Mrs. 
Mordaunt,  and  I  hope,  after  hearing  it,  that  you 
will  acquit  the  prisoner  of  malice  prepense  in 
intruding  on  your  solitude." 

But  she  is  not  listening  to  him. 

"  At  the  '  Dog  and  Fox  ! ' "  she  answers  ; 
"  that  horridly  low  little  place  in  the  middle  of 
the  village !    And  for  Colonel  Mordaunt's  neph- 


ew !  I  never  lu-ard  of  sueh  a  thinj:.  I  am  mn; 
your  uncle  will  be  exceedingly  vexed  when  ymi 
tell  him.  .\nd  Fen  Court  «ilh  a  dozen  Iml. 
rooms— why,  It  is  enough  to  niake  all  Pric-il  y 
talk." 

"Indeed,  it  was  the  best  thing  I  eoulil  di;— 
my  uncle  had  not  invitol  me  here;  and,  as  1  i< !! 
you  before,  I  am  not  sunUiintly  a  favorite  to  In 
able  to  run  in  and  out  just  as  I  ehoose." 

"Then  /  invite  you,  Mr.  Ualston — I  am  tub- 
tress  of  Fen  Couit;  and  in  llio  absence  of  tiiv 
husl)and  I  beg  you  will  consider  yourself  os  niy 
guest.     We  will  jrn  back  to  the  house  together." 

"Hut,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  you  are  too  good — l/'i' 
you  do  not  know — you  do  not  understand — I  inn 
afraid  my  unele  will  be  vexed — " 

"lie  will  not  be  vexed  with  any  thing  I 
choose  10  do,  Mr.  Ilalston ;  but  if  he  is  vexed  at 
this,  I  am  quite  sure  I  shall  be  vexed  with  him. 
Come,  at  all  events,  and  have  some  supper,  ni;d 
wait  up  with  me  for  his  return.     Come  !  " 

She  beckons  him  with  an  Inclination  of  her 
head  ns  she  utters  the  last  word,  and  he  is  fain  in 
follow  her.  They  pass  thnnigh  the  f^hrubberii- 
and  garden,  and  take  a  turn  or  two  down  IIk' 
drive,  and  hove  grown  quite  friendly  and  familiar 
with  one  onother  (as  young  people  brought  tn. 
gether,  with  any  excuse  to  bo  so,  soon  become)  liy 
the  time  they  reach  the  house  again. 

"  0/  course  I  am  your  aunt  !  "  Irene  is  say. 
ing,  as  the  porch  comes  in  view ;  "  and  you 
must  coll  me  so.  I  feel  quite  proud  of  having 
such  a  big  nephew.  I  shall  degenerote  into  an 
old  twaddler  by-and-by,  like  poor  Miss  Higgiii);, 
who  is  olwoys  talking  of  '  my  nevvy  the  captain ' 
— '  my  nevvy  tho  doctor '  will  sound  very  well, 
won't  it?  particularly  if  you'll  promise  to  be  a 
real  one,  with  M.  D.  after  your  name," 

"  If  any  thing  could  induce  mc  to  shake  my. 
self  free  of  tho  natural  indolence  that  cncumbfr? 
me,"  h(f  is  answering,  and  rather  gravely,  "it 
would  be  tho  belief  that  some  one  like  yourself 
wos  good  enough  to  toko  on  interest  in  my  ca- 
reer— "  when,  etroight  in  the  path  before  them, 
they  encounter  Mrs.  Quekett,  who,  with  a  liirli: 
shawl  cast  over  her  cop,  has  come  out  to  enjoy  tlio 
evening  air. 

Irene  is  passing  on,  without  so  much  as  a  smile 
or  on  inclination  of  tho  head  by  way  of  reeoeri- 
tion.  She  has  received  so  much  covert  imptiti- 
nenco  ot  Mrs.  Quekett's  hands,  that  she  is  not  dis- 
posed to  place  herself  in  tho  way  of  more  ;  anil 
tho  very  sight  of  the  house-keeper  is  obnoxiou- 
to  her.  But  Mrs.  Quekett  has  no  intention  if 
permitting  herself  to  be  so  slighted.    At  the  first 


OLIVER   RALSTON. 


01 


er  gravely,  ''it 


light  tit'  Oliver  Ralitlon  »hi>  Htaiteil,  but  liy  tlio 
time  tlioy  inot't  upon  tlio  (tiaveled  puth  »Uo  ha« 
liiiil  liiT  jilunfi. 

"  (jooil  -  I'vi'iiinjf,  imruiii  1 "  rho  conuiifnci'*, 
wllh  forced  courteny  to  her  Bociilleil  inlutrcgst, 
and  then  til rii»  to  her  iDiiipiniiiH. — "W'ldl,  Mus- 
ter Oliver!  wiio  would  liavu  thought  ■>('  xeeing 
vou  here?  I  nm  Hure  tiio  eohiticl  has  uo  cxpec- 
taiions  of  your  eoiniiift." 

"I  dare  my  not,  Mrs.  Quckelt;  ho  cuuld 
liaiillv  have,  c-DUHidering  I  iia<l  uot  tiuio  to  write 
atiil  liiforuihiiu  of  my  arrival,' 

"  And  iiow  will  he  like  it,  Muster  Oliver, 
wlieii  lie  docs  hear  it,  eh  ?  Ile'i*  not  over-pleaded 
in  },'eiierul  to  be  tal»eii  by  Hurprine." 

Here  Irene,  who  cannot  help  suying  what  she 
feel^,  injudiciously  puts  ill  lier  oar. 

'•  It  can  1)0  no  eoiicern  of  yours,  Quekett, 
wliut  Colonel  Murdauiit  thinks  or  does  not  think, 
iKir  ean  your  opinion,  I  imagine,  be  of  niu"h  value 
to  Mr.  Ualstoii.  Jle  will  sleep  here  to-ni^ht ;  sec 
tint  tiic  (Ircen-Kooiu  is  prepared  for  him.'' 

"  Wiieu  the  colonel  gives  orders  for  it  I  will, 
nin'am ;  but  you  will  excuse  mc  for  saying  that 
Mr.  Oliver  has  never  been  put  iii  the  Green-Room 
ytt,  and  I  don't  expect  that  he  will  be." 

"  Vou  will  excuse  tne  for  saying,  Mrs.  Que- 
kett," retorts  Irene,  now  fairly  roused,  "that,  as 
I  am  mistress  of  lun  Court,  and  you  are  the 
house-keeper,  you  will  prepare  any  romu  for  my 
guests  that  I  may  cbocso  to  select  for  their  ac- 
ciuninodatiou." 

"  I  take  my  orders  from  the  colonel,"  replies 
(lie  woman,  in  aiiuietly  iujiolent  nmuncr;  "  and  as 
tor  the  Ureen-Room,  it  was  always  kept  for  (/c/i/fc- 
imn  in  my  time,  and  I  don't  exi)cct  that  the  colonel 
will  choose  to  make  any  alterations  now  to  what 
it  was  then."     And  so  stumped  past  them. 

Irene  is  violently  agitated — her  face  grows 
livid — her  hands  turn  cold.  She  drags  Oliver 
after  her  into  the  Fen-Court  dining-room,  and 
there  turns  round  on  him  with  a  vehemence  that 
alarms  him,  lest  they  sho\dd  be  overheard. 

"Mr.  Ralston! — you  know  this  place — vou 
know  your  uncle — you  have  known  them  all  for 
years.  Tell  me,  for  Heaven's  sake,  lehat  is  the 
reason  thai  that  woman  u  permitted  to  behave  tow- 
ard ««  a»  she  does." 


CHAI'TKU    VI. 

"  What  in  the  rta»on  thai  that  wmnan  it  jkriiiif 
lid  to  Miiivt  totrard  u»  m  »he  dots  I "' 

Irene  closes  the  dining-room  door  with  a  loud 
slam  as  she  speaks,  and,  us  she  turns  to  eoidViuit 
him  again,  Oliver  Ralston  S4'es  that  the  pallor 
that  overspread  her  features  at  the  house-kcepei's 
insulting  siieei'li  has  given  way  to  a  rosy  Hush  of 
anger. 

"  Indeed  I  cannot  ti  11  you,  Mrs.  Monlaunt :  I 
iinve  asked  myself  the  same  (piestion  for  yeais 
past,  but  never  been  able  to  arrive  at  any  satis- 
factory conclusion.  But  you  arc  trembling  • 
pray  sit  down — this  sci'ne  has  overcome  you," 

"  Overcome  nu> !  How  could  it  do  else  but 
overcome  me  ?  I  have  not  been  used  to  nee  fer- 
vauts  assume  the  jilaie  of  mistresses;  and  I  feel, 
since  I  have  come  to  Fen  Court,  as  though  the 
world  were  turned  upside  down.  Mr.  Ralston, 
do  you  know  that  that  woman  occupies  one  of 
the  best  rooms  in  the  house  ?  " 

'"I  know  it  Well !  I  was  sent  back  to  school 
once,  in  the  midst  of  my  holidays,  for  having  had 
the  childish  curiosity  to  walk  round  it." 

"  That  slie  lies  in  bod  till  noon,"  continues 

Irene,  "  and  bus  her  breakfast  carried  up  to  licr  ; 

1  that  she  does  nothing  here  to  earn  her  living,  but 

speaks  of  the  house  and  servants  as  tlxnigh  they 

wore  her  own  property — " 

I        "lean  well  believe  it." 

"And  that  she  has  ai-tuallv  refused  to  receive 
any  orders  from  me." 

"  Hot  realli/ /  "  exclaims  Oliver  Ralston,  ear- 
nestly. 

"  Really  and  truly  !  " 

"  And  what  did  my  uncle  say  to  it  ?  " 

"That  I  had  better  give  my  orders  to  the 
cook  instead  ! " 

There  is  silence  between  tluiu  for  a  few  raiu- 
utes,  till  Irene  goes  on,  passionately  : 

"  I  could  not  bear  it — I  woidd  not  bear  it — if 
it  were  not  for  Philip.  But  he  is  the  very  best 
and  kindest  man  in  the  world,  and  I  am  sure  ho 
would  prevent  it  if  he  could.  Sometiuies,  Mr. 
Ralston,  I  have  even  fancied  that  be  is  more 
afraid  of  Quekett  than  any  of  us." 

"It  is  moat  extraordinary,"  muses  (diver, 
"  and  unaccountable.  That  there  is  a  mystery 
attached  to  it  I  have  always  believed,  for  the 
most  quixotic  devotion  to  a  fatbc.  s  memory 
could  hardly  justify  a  man  in  putting  up  with  in- 
sult from  his  inferiors.  Why,  even  as  a  child,  I 
used  to  remark  the  difference  in  my  uncle's  be- 


,''t ': 


89 


"NO  INTENTIOXH." 


h 


-r\i 


hftvlor  towniiJ  mu  whoii  Qtiekctt  wah  nirny.  IIlii 
niiiniicr  woiiM  lu'cotno  (|uiti'  uni'i'tiomite." 

"  Doisn't  hIi(!  liLc  .voii,  tlicii  f  " 

"HhofiaUimi.',  I  bi'lli.ve." 

"  Hut  wliy  y" 

"  I  Imvc  not  the  Icnst  iileii,  unU'Hn  it  is  tliut 
boyn  arc  not  easily  cowed  into  a  dt-reicntiiil  niiin- 
nor,  nnd  Mrn,  yiicki'tt  lias  always  ntood  jriTaliy 
on  litT  dignity.  Do  yoii  not  si'c  how  frigliliiit'il 
Aunt  Inabflla  In  of  lior  ?  " 

"  Indoi'd  I  do.  I  waylaid  li«'r,  only  yc-itfrdny, 
goin^  up  to  (lie  (dd  wonian'H  room  witli  the  newH- 
papero,  that  had  but  Jiisit  arrived  by  the  morning's 
poHt,  I  took  them  till  back  nf,'aln.  'Not  to- 
dayV,  U"  yon  please,  Inubellu,'  I  Haid.  *  I  should 
tliink  yosterday's  news  was  quilo  fresh  enough 
for  the  Horvantrt' hall.'  'Ohl  but  Mr^.  Quekctt 
has  always  been  aceustomcd,'  she  bcf^an — you 
know  her  funny  way — but  I  had  ndiic  in  the  end. 
And  Phltii)  said  I  was  ri};ht.  lie  always  does  say 
to  whenever  I  appeal  to  him.  Hut  why  can't  ho 
get  rid  of  her?" 

"  Why  indeed  !  Perhaps  there  is  Honio  clause 
attached  to  the  conditions  on  whieli  he  holds 
the  property,  of  which  we  know  nothing.  I  sup- 
pose it  will  all  eonie  to  light  some  day.  Discus- 
sion is  futile." 

"  And  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  right,"  repli(vi 
Irene,  blushing.  "Peiliaps  I  should  not  ha*  e 
spoken  so  freely  as  I  have,  but  I  was  much  an- 
noyed.  Whatever  Colonel  Mordaunt's  reasons 
may  be  for  keeping  Mrs.  Quckett,  I  am  sure  of 
one  thing — that  tliey  are  good  and  just,  for  he  is 
of  too  upright  and  honorable  a  character  to  lend 
his  hand  to  any  thing  that  is  wrong." 

"  My  unclo  is  a  happy  man  to  have  «o  stf  )■  h 
a  defender  in  his  absence,"  says  Oliver,  adunr- 
Ingly. 

"  If  his  wife  does  not  defend  him,  who  shall  ?  " 
she  answers ;  "  but  all  this  time  I  am  forgetting 
that  you  have  had  no  refreshment,  Mr.  Ralston. 
What  a  careless  hostess  you  must  think  me ! 
Now  confess  that  you  have  had  no  dinner." 

"  Well,  none  tliat  deserves  that  name,  cer- 
tainly." 

"  I  thought  BO  ;  but  what  can  you  expect,  if 
you  go  and  stay  at  a  wretched  hovel  like  the 
'  Dog  and  Fox  ?  '  Let  us  see  what  the  Court- 
larder  can  produce,"  ringing  the  bell.  "  At  all 
events,  Mrs.  Quekett  shall  not  balk  us  of  our  sup- 
per." 

She  orders  the  table  to  be  spread,  and  in  a 
very  short  time  a  substantial  repast  is  placed  be- 
fore them,  to  which  they  sit  down  together,  ban- 
ishing the  subject  of  Mrs,  Quekctt  by  mutual  con- 


liont,  until  the  eolmitl  nhall   rrturn   again,  ni,! 
ehaltln^   on  such    topics  n:t  aie  iiion?  eonsis'lci,!  | 
with  tlu'ir  youlli  and  relative  ponitinnH. 

At  eleven  o'elnck  the  carriage  -  wheels  ntr 
heard  grating;  "ii  the  graveled  drive,  ami  Iiii,, 
starts  to  her  feet  joyfully. 

"  Hero  he  Is,"  (die  cries.  "  N'ow  we  w  ill  liiiv^ 
this  matter  net  right  for  us." 

Oliver  also  rises,  but  does  not  oppenr  so  C(ir.. 
lident :  on  the  contrary,  ho  remains  in  the  buik. 
ground  until  tlu'  (list  salutations  In  twei  n  Mi^ 
Mordaunt  and  tlie  returning  party  are  ovir 
Then  his  uncle  calehcH  sight  of  him. 

"Holloa!  who  have  we  here?     Why,  Olivn 
— with  tlie  slightest  shade  of  annoyance  pas.-ii;: 
over  his  face — "  I  hail  no  idea  you  intended  con.- 
ing  down  so  soon.     Why  didn't  you  ^ay  so  ii, 
your  letter  ?     When  did  you  arrive  1  " 

But  his  wife  gives  him  no  t'ine  to  have  lii-  I 
questions  answered. 

"  Now,  arc  you  not  pleased  ?  "  she  exclaim*. 
"  Have  I  not  done  right  ?  I  met  this  gentleman 
ill  (ho  shrubbery,  Philip,  smoking — all  by  him- 
self; nnd,  when  I  found  he  was  your  nephew,  nml 
wos  actually  staying  nt  (hat  diity  little  '  Dog  aivl 
Fox' — fancy  sleeping  in  that  hole! — I  gave  hiiii 
an  invitation  to  Fen  Court  on  (he  spot,  and  nindi 
him  come  back  with  me.  Now,  wasn't  I  right? 
— say  so  !  " — with  her  face  in  dangerous  proxiii;- 
Ity  to  tlic  colonel's. 

"  Of  course  you  were  right,  my  darling — yuii 
always  are,"  he  replies,  kiss-ing  her  ;  "  and  I  nni 
very  glad  to  sec  Oliver  here. — Have  you — havi^ 
you  seen  old  Quekett?"  he  continues,  in  rather  a 
dubious  tone,  turning  to  his  nephew. 

But  Irene  again  interferes.  I 

"  Seen  her,  Philip — I  should  think  we  find 
seen  her,  and  heard  her  into  the  bargain.  SLi' 
has  been  so  horribly  rude  to  us." 

Colonel  Mordaunt's  face  flushes. 

"  Rude  !  I  hope  not !  Perhaps  you  misiii- 
tcrpreted  what  she  said,  Irene.  You  arc  rather 
apt  to  take  offense  in  that  quarter,  you  know, 
young  lady." 

"I  could  not  possibly  mistake  her  meaning; 
she  spoke  too  plainly  for  that.  Besides,  Mr. 
Ralston  was  with  mc,  and  hoard  what  she  said. 
She  ns  good  as  told  him  he  was  not  a  gentle- 


man 


I " 


Colonel  Mordaunt  grows  scarlet. 

"  Oh !  come !  come  !  don't  let  us  think  or  tall; 
any  more  about  an  old  womon's  crotchety 
speeches." 

"  But,  Philip,  we  must  talk,  because  the  worst 
is  to  come     I  told  her  to  have  the  Grcen-Room 


A   KINDLY   WAIlNINd. 


83 


Now  \vu  w  ill  liuv. 


propnrj'l  for  Mr.  ItaUton,  i\nil  iho  fl.itly  n-fbu'd 
to  ill  "0  wltlioiit  your  ordur*." 

"Will,  kIvo  lii<r  my  ordoM,  tlioii !" 

*' Iinlft'd,  I  Hindi  du  no  mii-h  thiii)(!"  wiili  ii 

(light  pout.     "  If  Miiiio  arc  not  to  bo  ohoyod,  you 

rnu!<t  (li'llviT  your  own.     .Mriinwiillo  no  room  U 

roailv  for  your  noplu'W,  nud — 'na-  i/mi/,  rrtiu'm- 

bor  1" 

"  Well,  my  diiilln;?,  rln;^  the  lull,  tlnii,  mid 
lull  them  to  get  It  ready,"  ho  uuswimh,  t<'ntlly. 

The  bidl  rviound^  through  the  hou:<c, 

"  Order  (iuekett  "  —  Irene  insueg  tho  com. 
iiiand  with  n  eharpncHS  very  foreign  to  her — "  to 
li;ivo  the  (Jrec'n-Koo;n  prepared  <it  oikv  for  Mr. 
ltd- ton,     Uomomber,  tliu  (Jnvn-Iiooin  f" 

A«  8'ion  a.s  tho  gorvant  hitii  dinuppeared, 
('i)loncl  Morduunt  tccmi  most  niixioiis  to  drop 
the  subject. 

"  Well,  Oliver,  and  so  you  think  of  pn;eti.<inf( 
ill  the  country,  eh  ?  That's  not  the  road  to  fame, 
ri'iueinbor." 

"  I  am  afraid  tho  road  I  am  treading  now,  rlr, 
will  not  lead  me  there  either.  A  town  life  is  tc^ 
rxpondivo  and  too  full  of  temptation  for  r.iich  a 
weak  fool  0.1  I  am.  I  cannot  resist  it,  therefore 
I  must  put  it  out  of  my  way." 

"That  U  true  strength,"  says  Irene,  with 
kinilling  eyes,  She  is  standing  now  against  her 
Imsbaud,  ami  has  drawn  one  of  his  arms  round 
lior  waist. 

"But  why  seek  work  n.-'ar  Priestley — the 
worst  possible  place  you  could  como  to  ?  " 

"  Only  because  I  heard  of  it  here.  A  Dr. 
Uobinson,  of  Fenton,  advertised  for  an  assistant, 
and  I  tliought  it  miglit  be  an  opening,  I  saw 
him  this  morning," 

"  And  have  you  decided  any  thing  ?  " 

"Certainly  not,  Robertson  and  I  like  tlie 
looks  of  each  other,  and  I  think  we  should  pull 
together.  But  I  should  not  dream  of  settling 
any  thing  until  I  had  consulted  you." 

"  Right !  To-morrow  I  may  bo  able  to  advise 
you ;  to-night  I  am  too  sleepy. — Come,  Irene,  arc 
you  ready  for  bed  ?  " 

"Quito  ready,"  and  tho  party  separates. 
On  her  w.iy  up-stairs,  Irene  peeps  into  the  Grcen- 
Room,  half  expecting  to  find  it  dark  and  deserted. 
But  no  ;  candles  arc  burning  on  the  toilet-table, 
towels  and  soap  and  other  necessaries  arc  in  their 
proper  places,  and  a  couple  of  rosy  house-maids 
arc  beating  up  the  pillows  and  making  tho  bed, 
AH  is  right  so  far;  and  Irene  enters  her  own 
room,  almost  ready  to  believe  that  Mrs.  Quekett 
must  have  repented  of  her  hosty  behavior. 

Here  she  finds  her  husband  waiting  for  her. 


"  Irone,"  he  commcnee*,  gravely,  "  don't  try 
j  and  perxuado  ycmg  Italxton  to  renutlu  hero  over 
,  to  night." 

"Of  courKo  I  will  not,  if  It  Is  ugalnnt  your 
wish,  riiilip.  Hut  I  thought,  in  asking  him,  that 
I  was  only  doing  just  what  you  would  have  done 
yourself," 

"Oh,  yes  t  It  iloesn't  mntter— I  am  glad 
enough  to  HOC  the  boy — only  he  iidght  have  limed 
hid  visit  more  conveniently.  We  hhall  bo  fidl 
next  week,  you  kiu)w," 

She  docs  not  know  any  such  thing,  nor  does 
iihe  heed  it.  Another  mystery  is  troubling  her  now. 

"  I'hilip  !  why  have  you  never  told  me  about 
this  nephew  of  yours  1  " 

"  I  have  tohl  you,  haven't  I  V  Don't  you  re- 
member my  mentioning  him  one  day  at  Wey- 
mouth!"' 

"  I  do  ;  but  it  was  oidy  en  jxi-^siiiit.  Yet  he 
tells  me  he  is  your  v.ard." 

"  Well,  a  kind  of  ward.  I  wish  he  were  not" 
— with  a  sigh. 

"  Does  he  give  you  ho  much  trouble  ?  " 

"  A  great  ileal,  and  has  always  ilonc  ho.  He 
leads  niiieh  too  fust  u  life,  and  his  health  has 
given  way  under  it,  and  his  morals.  Ho  drinks 
too  nmeh  and  smokes  too  mueh — ho  has  even 
gambled.  It  is  for  this  reason,  ehicfly,  that  I  do 
not  wish  him  to  become  intimate  with  you.  I 
value  my  precious  girl  too  much  to  expose  her 
purity  to  contamination." 

She  slip."?  her  band  into  his. 

"Too  hard  a  word,  Philip,  How  could  Mr. 
Ralston's  company  injure  me  V  He  is  not  likely 
to  infect  me  with  the  vices  you  mention.  But, 
if  you  alienate  him  from  ill  respectable  society, 
what  incentive  will  he  over  have  to  relinquish 
them  ?  And  he  is  an  orpluin,  too !  poor  fel- 
low ! " 

"  Y'oii  like  him,  Irene  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  like  his  face;  it  i.s  open  and  candid, 
I  like  his  manner,  too,  which  is  so  entirely  free 
from  Btlf-conccit.  I  feel  that  I  should  like  to  be 
a  friend  to  him.     Why  should  I  not  try  ?  " 

"  You  shall  try,  my  darling — at  least,  when 
Quekett  is  gone  to  town.  But,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  Irene,  Oliver  and  she  are  sworn  cnemicB, 
and  there  is  no  peace  in  the  house  while  they  are 
together." 

"  Why  do  you  allow  it,  Philip  ?  "  says  Irene, 
stoutly.  "Why  don't  you  tell  that  woman  she 
must  either  respect  your  guests,  or  go  ?  " 

"She  doesn't  look  on  Oliver  as  a  guest,"  he 
replies,  evasively.  "  She  has  known  him  from  a 
baby." 


■<'. 


14^ 


64 


"NO  intentions; 


.1  !3 


'    '') 


■■:  ,.\\ 


l.:i    >'\ 


"She  liiis  not  known  mo  from  a  baby,"  says 
Ilia  wife,  bitterly  ;  "  and  yet  she  speaks  to  me  as 
no  menial  has  ever  presumed  to  speak  before. 
0  Philip!  if  it  wore  not  for  ycu,  I  couldn't  stand 
itl" 

"  Hush !  hush !  my  darling,  it  shall  not  occur 
again,  I  promise  you.  I  shall  speak  to  Quekett, 
and  tell  her  I  will  not  have  you  annoyed  in  this 
manner.  You  saw  that  I  upheld  your  authority 
this  evening." 

"  Yes,  I  did.  Thank  you  for  it,  and  I  hope 
it  will  be  a  lesson  Xj  t!:^  old  wretch,  for  I  detest 
ber ! " 

"  Strong  word  J  jor  a  lady !  "  laughs  Colonel 
Mordaunt,  simply  bccau.">  he  does  not  echo  the 
sentiment. 

He  takes  up  his  candlestick,  aud  moves  a 
little  way  toward  the  door.  Then  he  returns 
suddenly,  bonds  over  his  wife,  and  kisses  her. 

"  Thank  you,"  ho  says,  softly,  "  for  wishing 
to  befriend  poor  Oliver,  my  dear ! " 

At  these  words,  what  Mr.  Ralston  told  her 
concerning  his  uncle's  affection  being  more  de- 
monstrative at  one  time  than  another,  rushes  into 
her  mind,  and  she  says,  abniptly : 

"  Did  you  ii>vc  his  mother  very  much,  Philip  ?  " 
"^(«  mother!"    Colonel   Mordaunt   appears 
quite  upset  by  the  remark. 

"  Yes  ;  your  sister ;  you  never  bad  a  brother, 
had  you  ?  " 

"  No !   I  never  had  a  brother,"  he  answers, 
vaguely. 

"  Then  Oliver  is  your  sister's  child,  I  suppose. 
Which  sister  ?     Was  she  older  than  Isabella  ?  " 

"  No  !  she  was  two  years  younger."  Colonel 
Mordaunt  has  recover:  '  himself  by  this  time,  and 
Epeaks  quite  calmly.  "  I  had  three  sisters,  Anne, 
Isabella,  and  Mary.  Poor  Mary  made  a  runaway 
match  and  her  father  never  spoke  to  her  after- 
ward." 

"  Well ! " 

"  When  she  was  dying  she  wrote  to  me  (she 
Lad  always  been  my  favorite  sister,  poor  girl !) 
and  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her.  Of  course  I  went 
(she  had  been  a  widow  for  more  than  a  year  then, 
ant.  was  living  at  Cannes),  and  stayed  by  her  to 
the  last.  Then  I  returned  home,  and — and — 
brought  Oliver  with  me." 

"  Her  only  child,  of  course." 
"  The  only  child — yes.    My  father  woidd  liave 
nothing  to  say  to  the  boy  ;  he  was  a  little  chap 
of  about  two  years  old  at  the  time,  and  so  I  kept 
him.    What  else  could  I  do  ?  " 

"And  have  brought  him  up  and  educated 
him,  and  every  thing  since.    0  Philip,  how  good 


of  you — how  very  kind  and  good !  IIow  I  do 
love  and  admire  you  for  it ! "  And  she  seizes  her 
husband's  head  between  her  hands  and  gives  it 
a  good  squeeze.  On  being  released,  Colonel  Mor. 
daunt  appears  very  red  and  confused, 

"Don't,  my  darling,  pray  don't;  I  am  \w\ 
worthy  of  your  pure  aU'cction  ;  I  wish  I  were.  I 
have  only  done  what  ccnunon  justice  deraaudcil 
of  me." 

"  And  you  will  let  me  help  you  to  Cni.sh  tlie 
task,"  says  Irene.  "  I  dare  say  all  these  thing;!— 
the  knowledge  of  his  orphaidiood  and  that  liis 
grandfather  wouldn't  acknowledge  him  —  have 
weighed  on  his  mind,  poor  boy,  and  driven  him 
to  the  excesses  of  which  you  complain.  Let  U3 
be  his  friends,  Philip  ;  good,  firm,  honest  friends; 
ready  to  praise  him  when  he  is  right,  but  not 
afraid  to  blame  him  when  he  is  wrong — and  you 
will  sec  him  a  steady  character  yet.  I  am  suro 
of  it — there  is  something  in  the  very  expression 
of  his  faee  that  tells  me  so." 

Iler  husband  catches  her  enthusiasm  ;  thaiil;; 
her  again  for  the  interest  she  displays  on  behalt' 
of  his  nephew ;  and  leaves  her  just  in  the  mood 
to  confront  Mrs.  Quekett  and  defeat  her  with  her 
own  weapons.  And  on  the  landing,  outside  the 
bedroom-door,  where  she  had  probably  been  air- 
ing her  ear  at  the  keyhole,  he  intercepts  her. 

"  Quekett ! "  he  says,  loftily,  as  she  starts  at 
his  forthcoming,  "I  wish  to  say  two  words  to 
you  in  my  dressing-room.  Re  so  good  as  to  fol- 
low me." 

He  stalks  to  the  hall  of  judgment  niajestieally 
with  his  candlestick  in  his  hand,  and  she  followj 
in  his  train,  but  she  will  not  stoop  so  low  as  to 
close  the  dressing-room  door  upon  their  entrance ; 
and  so  the  colonel  has  to  return  and  do  it  him- 
self, which  rather  detracts  from  his  assumption 
of  dignity. 

"  Well,  sir  ! "  she  commences  from  the  chair 
in  which  she  has,  as  usual,  ensconced  herself; 
"  and  what  may  your  two  words  be  ?  I  have 
rather  more  than  two  to  say  to  you  myself; 
and  as  it's  usual  for  ladies  to  come  first,  perhaps 
I'd  better  be  the  one  to  begin." 

"  You  can  do  as  )'ou  like,"  replies  Colonel 
Mordaunt,  whose  courage  is  all  oozing  out  of  his 
fingers'  ends  at  being  shut  up  alone  with  the  old 
beldame. 

"  My  words  won't  take  long  to  say,  though 
they  may  be  more  than  yours.  It  just  comes  to 
this,  colonel ;  you  promised  me  Oliver  shouldn't 
stay  in  this  house  again,  and  you've  broke  your 
promise,  that's  all." 

"  I  promised  you  that  his  staying  here  should 


MRS,   QUEKETT'S  DEPARTURE. 


65 


Wins  here  should 


never  inconvenience  you,  and  you  have  got  to 
prove  tliiil  it  will  do  so.  liesiJea,  it  is  almost 
cutirc'ly  your  own  fault  tliat  it  has  occurred.  If 
you  had  restrained  your  fuelinj,'3  a  little  this  even- 
in"  as  any  prud(!Ut  peison  would  have  done, 
von  would  not  have  excited  Mrs.  Mordaunt  to  try 
her  influence  against  yours.  You  arc  carrying 
iliL'  game  too  far,  Quekctt.  You  have  spoken 
rudely  to  my  wife,  and  that  is  a  thing  that  I  can- 
;  not  countenance  in  you  or  any  one." 

"  Ob,  yes ;  of  course,  my  wife.  Every  thing's 
i  my  wife  now  ;  and  let  by-gones  be  by-goucs,  and 
I  all  the  past  forgotten." 

'I  think  by-goncs  should  be  by-gones,  Quek- 
I  ett,  when  we  can  do  no  good  by  raking  them  up 
again." 

"  Not  for  our  own  ill-convenience,  colonel,  cer- 
I  tainly.  But  to  such  as  me,  who  have  held  by  one 
I  family  for  a  space  of  thirty  years,  and  suffered 
I  with  it  as  the  Lord  alone  knows  how,  to  see  a 
I  place  turned  topsy-turvy  and  the  servants  all 
Iholtor-skeltcr  to  please  the  freaks  of  a  young  girl, 
Ino  one  can  say  but  it's  trying.  Why,  there's  not 
la  cliair  or  a  table  in  that  drawing-room  that  stands 
lin  the  same  place  as  it  used  to  do  ;  and  as  for  the 
liilnnors,  since  she's  been  at  what  you  call  the 
llicad  of  your  establishment,  there's  not  been  a 
Idinucr  placed  upon  the  table  that  I'd  ask  a  work- 
Ihouso  pauper  to  sit  down  and  eat  with  me  !  " 

"  Well,  well,"  says  Colonel  Mordaunt,  inipa- 
Itiently,  "  these  are  my  grievances  surely,  and  not 
lyours.  If  you  have  no  worse  complaint  to  bring 
lagainst  Mrs.  Jlordaunt  than  this,  I  am  satisfied. 
■But  what  has  it  to  do  with  your  refusing  to  take 
|hcr  orders  ?  " 

"Ilcr  orders,  indeed  I  "  says  the  houso-kocpi>r, 
|with  a  sniff. 

"  To  follow  her  wishes,  then,  if  you  like  tlie 
orra  better,  with  respect  to  so  simple  a  thing  as 
Jiaving  one   room  or  another  prepared  for  her 
Ruests." 

"  The  Green-Roora  for  Oliver,"  she  interrupts, 
Sarcastically  ;  "  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing ! " 

"  You,  at  all  events,"  he  answers,  sternly 
'should  be  the  last  to  raise  an  objection  to  it." 

"  But  I  do  raise  it,  colonel,  and  I  shall.  I  say 
It's  absurd  to  treat  that  lad  as  though  he  was  a 
bobleman  (why,  you  haven't  a  better  room  to  put 
Ihe  Prince  of  Wales  in,  if  he  came  to  visit  you) ; 
>nd  then  to  think  of  that—" 

"Bo  careful  what  you  say,  Quekett.  Don't 
^lake  me  too  angry.  I  shall  stand  up  for  Oliver 
Ralston — " 

"  Oliver  Fiddlesticks  ! " 

"Whatever  the  rest  of  the  family  may  do; 


and  yi)u,  who  talk  so  much  of  clinging  to  us  and 
being  faithful  to  our  interests,  should  uphold,  in- 
stead of  lighting  against  inc  in  this  matter.  I 
cout'ess  that  I  cannot  understand  it.  You  loved 
his  mother,  or  I  conelude  you  did — " 

"  Loved  his  inot/ur ! "  echoes  the  woman, 
shrilly,  as  she  ri.ses  from  her  chair;  "it  is  be- 
cause 1  loved  his  mother,  colonel,  that  I  hate  the 
sight  of  him  ;  it  is  because  I  remember  her  inuo. 
cent  girlliood,  and  her  blighted  womanhood,  and 
her  broken-hearted  death,  that  to  hear  iiim  speak 
and  sec  him  smile,  in  his  bold  way,  makes  me  wish 
she  had  died  before  she  had  left  bei.iind  her  such  a 
mockery  of  herself.  I  can't  think  what  she  was 
after  not  to  do  it,  for  she  hadn't  much  to  live  for 
at  the  last,  as  you  know  well." 

"  I'oor  Mary ! "  sighs  the  eolocel. 

"  Ah  !  poor  Mary  ;  that's  the  way  the  world 
always  speaks  of  the  lucky  creatures  that  iiavo 
escaped  from  it.  /  don't  call  her  poor  Mary, 
and  turn  up  the  whites  of  my  eyes  after  your 
fashion  ;  but  I  can't  live  in  the  same  house  with 
her  son,  and  so  I've  told  you  before.  Either 
Oliver  goes  or  I  go.  You  can  take  your 
choice." 

"  But  you  are  talking  at  random,  Quekett. 
You  have  got  a  crotchet  in  your  head  about  Oliver, 
just  as  you  have  a  crotchet  in  your  head  about 
receiving  Mrs.  Mordaunt'a  orders,  and  one  is  as 
absurd  as  the  other.  Just  try  to  look  at  theaa 
things  in  a  reasonable  liglit,  and  all  would  go 
smoothly." 

But  Mrs.  Quekctt  is  not  to  be  smoothed  down 
so  easily 

"  You  can  do  as  you  please,  colonel,  but  my 
words  stand.  You  hare  choKen.  i.o  keep  Master 
Oliver  here." 

"  I  could  not  have  done  otherwise  without  ex- 
citing susjiicion;  would  you  have  me  blab  the 
story  to  all  the  world  ?  "  he  says,  angrily. 

"  Oh !  if  you  go  on  in  this  way,  colonel,  I 
shall  blab  it  myself,  and  save  j'ou  the  trouble. 
As  if  it  wasn't  enough  to  have  the  Court  pulled 
to  pieces  before  my  eyes,  and  to  be  spoken  to  as 
if  I  was  the  scumiof  the  earth,  without  being 
crossed  in  this  fa-shion.  You  told  mo  just  now, 
coloucl,  not  to  make  you  too  angry— don't  you  do 
the  same  by  me,  or  I  may  prove  a  tougher  cus- 
tomer than  I've  done  yet.  Now,  do  you  mean  to 
let  Oliver  stay  here,  or  no  ?  " 

"  I  shall  let  him  remain  as  long  as  it  seems 
proper  to  myself,"  replies  her  master,  whose  tem- 
per is  now  fairly  roused. 

The  house-keeper  can  hardly  believe  her  ears. 

"  You — will — let— him — remain !  "  she  gasps. 


h  hi 

ir 

m 


M 


'  f   ! .  |, 


: ! 


ry 


h^,^ 


66 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


"And  why  don't  you  add,  'according  to  Mrs. 
Mordaunt's  wishes  ?  ' " 

"  I  do  odd  it,  Qucltott — '  according  to  Mrs, 
Mordaunt's  wishes.'  Mr.".  Mordaunt  is  mistress 
here,  and  the  length  of  her  guests'  visits  will  be 
determined  by  her  desire.  And  while  she  is 
mistress  here,  remember  that  I  will  have  her 
treated  by  you  as  a  mistres?,  and  not  as  an 
equal." 

Quokett  stares  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silent 
surprise ;  and  then  the  angry  blood  pumps  up  in- 
to her  face,  filling  her  triple  chins  until  they  look 
like  the  wattles  of  an  infuriated  turkey,  and 
making  her  voice  shake  with  the  excitement  that 
ensues. 

"Very  well,  colonel.  I  understand  you. 
You  have  said  quite  enough,"  .sjie  replies,  quiv- 
eringly. 

"  It  is  as  well  you  should  understand  me, 
Quekctt,  and  I  ought  to  have  said  all  this  long 
before.  You  are  angry  now,  but,  when  you  have 
had  time  to  think  over  it,  you  will  see  that  I  am 
right." 

"Very  well,  colonel — that  is  quite  sufficient 
— you  will  have  no  more  trouble  on  my  account, 
I  can  assure  you;"  and  with  that  Mrs.  Quekctt 
sweeps  out  of  the  dressing-room. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  doesn't  feel  quite  comfort- 
able after  her  departure :  it  has  been  too  abrupt 
to  leave  a  comfortable  impression  behind  it :  but 
he  consoles  himself  with  the  reflection  that  he 
has  done  what  is  right  (not  always  a  reflection  to 
bring  happiness  with  it,  by-thc-way,  and  often 
accompanied  by  much  the  same  cold  comfort 
presented  by  gruel,  or  any  other  nastiness  that 
we  swallow  in  order  to  do  us  good) ;  and,  seeking 
Irene's  presence  again,  sleeps  the  sleep  of  the 
just,  trusting  to  the  morning's  light  to  dispel 
much  of  his  foreboding. 

The  morning's  light  dispels  it  after  this  wise  : 

Between  six  and  seven  Irene  is  wakened  by  a 
strange  sound  by  her  bedside,  something  be- 
tween the  moaning  of  the  wind  and  a  cat's  mew ; 
and  jumps  up  to  find  her  sister-in-law  standing 
there,  looking  as  melancholy  as  a  mute  at  a  fu- 
neral, and  sniffing  into  a  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  Good  gracious,  Isabella !  what  is  the  mat- 
ter?   Is  Philip— " 

But  no;  Philip  is  occupying  his  own  place 
of  honor,  and  has  not  yet  opened  his  eyes  upon 
this  wicked  world. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?    Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt ;  but  Mrs. 
Quekett — I  shouldn't  have  ventured  in  here,  you 
may  be  quite  sure — "  and  here  Isabella's  virgin 


eyes  are  modestly  veiled — "  except  that  Mrs.  Quek- 
ctt is — oh !  what  will  Philip  say  ?  " 

"  Is  she  dead  ?  "  demands  Irene,  with  a  live- 
ly interest  not  quite  in  accordance  with  the  eol- 
cmn  inquiry. 

"  Dead !    My  dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  no !  " 

"  What  is  the  row  ?  "  says  her  brother,  now 
awake  for  the  first  time. 

"0  Philip,  Mrs.  Quekctt  is  ffoi.e." 

"  Gone !  where  to  ?  " 

"I  don't  know;  but  I  think  to  London— to 
Lady  Baldwin's  —  I  tried  to  stop  her,  but  I 
couldn't ;  she  would  go." 

"  Jubilate ! "  cries  Irene,  clapping  her  hand  j. 
"  I  am  so  glad.  Is  she  really  gone  ?  It's  too  good 
to  be  true." 

"  Oh  !  but,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  she  was  so 
angry,  and  so  unkind,  she  wouldn't  even  kiss  mc," 
says  Isabella,  relapsing  into  a  fresh  scries  of  sniUV. 

"Faugh!"  replies  Irene.  "What  a  misfor. 
tune! — But,  Philip,  had  you  any  idea  of  this?" 

"None!" 

"  Is  it  because  of  what  occurred  last  night  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  so." 

"Why  afraid?  We  shall  do  much  better 
without  her. — How  did  she  go,  Isabella  ?  " 

"  In  the  carrioge.  I  knew  nothing  about  it 
till  I  beard  the  carriage  drive  up  to  the  door. 
There  is  a  nine-o'clock  train  to  London — I  sup- 
pose she  means  to  catch  that ! " 

"  III  the  carriage"  repeats  Irene. — "  Philip, 
did  you  ever  hear  of  such  impertinence  ?  " 

"  Well,  never  mind,  my  darling ;  never  mind 
it  now,"  he  replies,  soothingly.  You  see  she  al- 
ways has  been  used  to  have  the  carriage  to  drive 
to  the  station  in,  on  these  occasions ;  it  is  not  as 
though  she  were  an  ordinary  servant,  but  it 
won't  occur  again — or,  at  all  events,  for  some 
time,"  he  adds,  as  a  proviso  to  himself. — "  Did 
Quekett  mention  how  long  she  is  Ukely  to  be  ab- 
sent, Isabella  ?  " 

"  No  !  she  told  me  uothing — she  would  hard- 
ly speak  to  me — she  was  very,  verji  crotchety," 
replies  his  sister. 

"  IIow  I  hope  she  may  stay  away  forever ! '' 
says  Irene.  "  Come,  Isabella,  you  must  let  roe 
get  up.  It  will  be  quite  a  new  sensation  to  go 
down  to  breakfast  and  feel  there  is  no  chance  of 
meeting  that  bird  of  evil  omen  on  the  stairs." 

So  Miss  Mordaunt  leaves  her  brother  and 
sister-in-law  to  their  respective  toilets,  and  re- 
tires, quite  overcome  by  Irene's  boldness,  and 
almost  shaken  in  her  fiiith  respecting  the  power 
held  by  Mrs.  Quekett  over  the  inhabitants  of  Fen 
Court. 


TUK   VILLAGE  OV  TillESTLEY. 


07 


;hat  Mrs,  Quck- 

ic,  with  a  live- 
2  witli  the  sol- 

mt,  no ! " 

p  brother,  now 


0  London — to 
op    her,  but  I 

)ing  her  hands. 
?    It's  too  good 

aunt,  she  was  so 
t  even  kiss  mo," 
i  series  of  sniff:'. 
What  a  misfor. 
idea  of  this  ? " 

ed  last  night  ? " 

lo  mucli   better 
iabella  ?  " 
lothing  about  it 
up  to  the  door. 
London — I  sup- 

[rone.—"  Philip, 
inenee  ?  " 
ng;  never  mind 
You  see  she  al- 
arriage  to  drive 
)ns :  it  is  not  as 
servant,  but  il 
vents,  for  Bonie 
himself.— "Did 
liliely  to  be  ab- 

she  would  hard- 
vcri/  crotchety," 

away  forever!'' 
)U  must  let  me 
sensation  to  go 
is  no  chance  of 
the  stairs." 
icr  brother  and 
toilets,  and  re- 
s  boldness,  anJ 
cting  the  power 
habitants  of  Fen 


As,  some  niiniito3  aftor,  tlio  coloufl  is  nuiet- 
ly  enjoying  h'n  matutiuiil  buth,  ho  id  almost 
etartlcd  out  of  his  seven  senses  by  a  violent  rap- 
ijin"  against  the  partition  whieh  divides  hi.s  dross- 
iiK'-room  fromhiri  wife's  bodioum. 

"  My  dear  girl,  what  is  the  matter  '?  "  lie  ex- 
claims, as  he  foeld  his  inaljility  to  ni.sh  to  the  res- 
cue. 

"  Philip  !  Philip ! "  with  a  dozen  more  raps 
from  the  back  of  her  hair-brush.  "  Look  here, 
rbilip— may  Oliver  stay  with  uj  now  ?  " 

"  Ves !  yes  !  "  ho  shouts,  iu  answer,  "  as  long 
as  ever  you  like ! — Tliank  Heaven,  it's  nothing 
worse,"  he  murmurs  to  himself,  a.s  he  siidvS  back 
into  lii-s  bath.  "  I  really  thoui,'ht  the  old  witch 
liaJ  repented  of  her  piirpo.so,  iinj  was  down  on  us 
again !  " 

As  a  v.'liole,  the  village  of  Priestley  is  not 
piuttirc-que  in  appearance,  but  it  has  wonderfully 
romantic-looking  bits  scattered  about  it  here  and 
tliore,  as  what  country-village  has  not  ?  Tumble- 
down cottages,  belonging  to  landlords  more 
"no.ir"  than  thrifty,  or  rented  by  tenants  whose 
weekly  wages  go  to  swell  the  income  of  the  "  Dog 
and  Fox;"  with  untidy  gardens  attached  to 
them,  where  the  narrow  paths  have  been  almost 
washed  away  by  the  spring  shower.^,  until  tlicy 
form  mere  gutters  for  the  summer  rain,  into 
which  the  heavy  blo.^soms  of  the  neglected  ro.-e- 
trces  lie,  sodden  and  polluted  from  the  touch  of 
earth.  Or  old-fashioned  cottages,  built  half  a 
century  before,  when  bricks  and  mortar  wore  not 
so  scarce  as  now,  and  laid  together  in  a  firmer 
union,  and  roofs  were  thatched  instead  of  slated. 
Cottages  with  darker  rooms,  perhaps,  than  the 
more  modern  ones  possess,  because  the  case- 
ments arc  latticed  with  snuil  diamond-shaped 
panes,  of  which  the  glass  is  green  iind  dingy,  but 
which  can  boast  of  wide  fireplaces  and  a  t  ira- 
ncy-corner  (that  inestim  -Mo  comfort  to  the  aged 
poor,  who  feel  the  winter's  liaughts  as  keenly  as 
their  richer  brethren,  and  ve  been  known  to 
Eufl'er  from  rheumatics),  an  upboards  to  stow 
away  provisions  in,  such  as  .  ■  never  thought 
necessary  to  build  in  newer  leuements.  Such 
cottages  as  these  have  usually  a  garden  as  old- 
fashioned  as  themselves,  surrounded  by  a  low 
.stone  wall — not  a  stiff,  straight  wall,  but  a  de- 
liciously -irregular  erection,  with  a  large  block 
left  every  here  and  there,  to  serve  as  a  stepping- 
j  stone  for  such  as  prefer  that  mode  of  ingress  to 
passing  through  the  wicket,  and  of  which  ftict 
stone-crop  and  creeping  jenny  have  seized  base 
advantage,  and,  taking  root,  increased  iu  such  pro- 


fu.-ion  that  it  would  lie  u.-^iless  now  to  give  liicni 
notice  of  eviction.  Over  tlie  wall  a  rcgiir.eiit  of 
various-tinted  hollyhocks  rear  their  stately  heads, 
i:iter,''persed  here  and  there  with  a  liright  sun- 
liower  ;  while  at  their  feet  we  fiiul  dove-pinks 
and  thyme  and  southern-wood  and  camomile 
(lowers,  and  all  the  old-world  darlings  which  look 
so  sweet,  and,  iu  many  cases,  smell  so  nasty,  but 
without  which  an  old-world  garden  would  not  be 
comi)lete. 

All  this  is  very  nice,  but  it  is  not  so  wild  and 
romantic  as  the  other;  indeed,  as  a  rule,  we  may 
generally  conclude  that  the  most  picturesque 
jdaccs  to  look  at  are  the  least  comfortable  to  live 
in.  Perhaps  the  cottage  of  all  others  in  Priestley 
that  an  artist  would  select  as  a  subject  for  his 
pencil  would  be  that  of  Mrs.  Cray,  the  laundress, 
and  it  is  certainly  as  uncomfortable  a  homo  as 
the  village  possesses.  It  is  not  situated  in  the 
principal  tiioroughfiire — the  "  street,"  as  Priest- 
ley proudly  calls  it,  on  account,  jierhnps,  of  its 
owning  the  celebrated  ''  Dog  and  Fo.k  " — Imt  at 
the  extremity  of  a  long  lane  which  divides  tho 
little  settlement  i'.ito  a  cross.  It  is,  indeed,  the 
very  last  house  before  we  pass  into  tlie  open 
country,  and  chosen,  doubtless,  for  its  contiguity 
to  the  green  fields  which  form  the  washerwoiu- 
an's  drying-grounds.  It  is  a  long,  low,  sham- 
bling building,  more  like  a  barn  than  a  cottage, 
with  windows  irregularly  placed,  some  in  the 
thatched  roof  and  others  on  a  level  with  one's 
knees.  It  has  a  wide  space  in  front,  wiiich  once 
was  garden,  but  is  now  only  a  tract  of  beaten- 
down  earth,  like  a  children's  playground,  us  in- 
deed it  is.  In  the  centre  stands  an  old-fa.shioned 
well,  large  and  deep,  encircled  by  a  high  brink 
of  stone-work,  over  which  ivy  grows  with  such 
luxuriance  that  it  endeavors  to  climb,  and  would 
climb  and  sufl'ocate,  the  very  windlas.s,  were 
Mrs.  Cray's  boys  and  girls  not  constantly  em- 
[iloycd  in  tearing  it  ruthlessly  away.  At  the 
side  of  the  well  is  the  pig-sty,  but  the  pigs  share 
the  play-ground  with  the  children,  rout  away 
among  the  ivy,  snuff  about  the  open  door,  try 
to  drink  out  of  Mrs.  Cray's  washing-tubs,  and 
make  themselves  generally  at  homo.  On  a  fine 
stretching  from  the  cottage  to  the  gate  above  tho 
heads  of  this  strange  company,  llutter  a  variety 
of  white  and  colored  garments,  like  the  Uags  on  a 
holiday  -  dressed  frigate ;  wliile  the  projecting 
wooden  porch — a  very  Ijower  of  greenery — con- 
tains several  evidences  of  the  trade  which  is  be- 
ing driven  within. 

The  old  home!     IIow  little  she  has  thought 


'i 


I'^i^l 


^H 


i 


'if     W:i 


' 

L'H,I:    .) 

■  •  , 

■  .■»■■■■!•;' 

i      ' 

i  ^^  ; 

i 

'  J 

68 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


of  it  of  late !  Yet  she  can  seo  it  in  her  mind's 
eye,  as  she  stands  pondering  his  word.4.  It  was 
I'ot  a  particularly  happy  home  to  her — the  homes 
of  tlie  poor  seldom  arc.  Slie  had  known  liunger 
and  thirst  and  cold,. and  occasionally  the  sound 
of  liartih  words  within  its  limits,  yet  the  memory 
of  tne  dull  life  .she  led  there  seems  very  peaceful 
now,  compared  to  the  excited  and  stormy  scenes 
tlirouyh  which  she  has  passed  since  leaving  it. 

Yes !  it  was  of  this  old  home  that  Myra  had 
been  thinking  three  years  ago,  when  Joel  Cray 
stood  beside  her  in  the  fields  of  Fretterley,  and 
urged  her  to  return  with  him.  It  was  to  this  old 
home  she  flew  for  refuge  from  the  biiter  knowl- 
edge of  her  lover's  want  of  love  for  her,  and  it  is 
in  this  old  home  that  we  now  meet  with  her  again. 

It  is  at  the  close  of  a  long,  hot  September 
day,  and  she  is  sitting  by  the  open  window — not 
attired  as  we  saw  her  last,  in  a  robe  of  costly  ma- 
terial, with  her  hair  dressed  in  the  prevailing 
fashion,  and  gold  ornaments  gleaming  in  her  cars 
and  on  her  breast.  Myra  is  arrayed  in  cotton 
now  ;  the  shawl,  which  is  still  pinned  about  her 
shoulders,  is  of  black  merino,  and  the  hat,  which 
she  has  just  cast  upon  the  table  is  of  black  straw, 
and  ahnost  without  trunming.  Yet  there  is  a 
greater  change  in  the  woman  than  could  be  pro- 
duced by  ary  quality  of  dross — a  change  so  vivid 
and  startling,  to  such  as  have  not  Eccn  her  dur- 
ing this  interval  of  three  years,  as  to  draw  oft" 
the  consideration  from  every  thing  except  her- 
self. 

Iler  face  has  fallen  away  to  half  its  former 
size,  so  that  the  most  prominent  features  in  it 
are  her  cheek-bones,  above  which  her  large  dark 
eyes  gleam  feverishly  and  hollow.  Iler  hair, 
which  used  to  be  so  luxuriant,  now  poor  and 
thin,  is  pushed  pk.inly  away  behind  her  ears; 
while  her  lips  are  colorless,  and  the  bloodless  ap- 
pearance of  her  complexion  is  only  relieved  by 
two  patches  of  crimson  beneath  her  eyes,  which 
make  her  look  as  though  she  had  been  rouged. 
Her  shape,  too,  once  so  round  and  buxom,  has 
lost  all  its  comeliness  ;  her  print  go  vn  hangs  in 
folds  about  her  waist  and  bosom,  and  she  has  ac- 
quired a  stoop  which  she  never  had  before. 
Eight-and-twenty — only  eight-and-twenty  on  her 
birthday  passed,  and  brought  to  this !  But,  as 
she  gazes  vacantly  at  the  patch  of  ground  in  front 
of  her  aunt's  cottage,  she  is  not  thinking  of  her 
health — people  who  are  dangerously  ill  seldom 
do ;  yet  her  thoughts  arc  bitter.  The  children  are 
playing  there — five  children  between  the  ages  of 
eight  and  fourteen,  belonging  to  Mrs.  Cray,  and  a 


little  nurse-child  of  which  she  has  the  charge. 
The  latter — an  infant  who  has  not  long  learned 
to  walk  alone — escapes  from  his  guardian,  who  U 
the  youngest  of  the  Crays,  and  attcn.pts  to  diinlj 
the  ivy-covered  brink  of  the  well ;  more,  he  man- 
ages  to  hoist  his  sturdy  limbs  up  to  the  top,  aiKJ 
to  crawl  toward  the  uncovered  pit.  His  guardian 
attempts  to  gain  hold  of  one  of  his  mottled  legs; 
he  kicks  resistance ;  she  screams,  and  the  scream 
arouses  Myra  from  her  dream.  She  has  just 
been  thinking  how  little  life  is  worth  to  any  one ; 
she  sees  life  in  danger  of  being  lost,  and  flics  to 
preserve  it.  As  she  reaches  the  well,  and  seizes 
hold  of  the  rebellious  infant,  her  face  is  crimson 
with  excitement. 

"  Tommy  would  do  it !  "  cxplairs  Jenny,  be 
ginning  to  whimper  wilh  the  fright. 

The  infant  doesn't  whimper,  but  still  kicks 
vigorously  against  the  sides  of  his  preserver. 

Myra  throws  down  the  wooden  lid  whicli 
ought  at  all  times  to  keep  tlie  well  covered; 
presses  Tommy  passionately  against  her  breast; 
then  putting  him  down,  with  a  good  cuff  on  tlie 
side  of  his  head,  to  teach  him  better  for  the  fu- 
ture, walks  back  into  the  cottage,  panting. 

"  Why  did  I  do  it  ?  "  she  thinks,  as  she  leans 
her  exhausted  frame  upon  the  table.  "  What's 
the  good  of  life  to  him,  or  me,  or  any  one  ?  AVe 
had  much  better  bo  all  dead  together !  " 

"  Hollo,  Myra !  "  exclaims  the  voice  of  her 
cousin  Joel,  "  what,  you're  back  again,  are  you '! 
Well !  I'm  right  glad  to  see  you,  lass,  though  1 
can't  say  as  you  look  any  the  better  for  youi 
going." 

lie  has  come  in  from  his  daily  labor,  through  I 
the  back-kitchen,   and  now   stands  before  her, 
with   his   rough,  kind  hands  placed  upon    her 
shoulders, 

"  Let  me  look  in  your  face,  my  dear,  and  read 
what  it  says  !  .ZVo  news.  I  thought  as  much. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  so  before  ever  you  went  ?  " 

"And  if  an  angel  had  told  me  so,"  she  says,  I 
passionately,  "  do  you  think  I  should  have  listened 
to  what  he  said  ?  What's  health,  or  wealth,  or 
peace,  or  any  thing  to  me,  compared  to  tlic 
chance  of  finding  him  again,  and  seeing  myself 
righted  ?  And  yet  you  blame  me  because  I  can't 
make  up  my  mind  to  part  with  it — the  only  I 
thing  the  world  has  left  me." 

"  /  blame  you,  my  dear  ?   God  forbid !    Only 
you  can't  expect  me  to  see  you  wasting  all  your  I 
life  running  aftcrashadder,  without  warning  you| 
of  the  consequences.      You'll  wear  yourself  out, 
Myra." 

"  There's  a  deal  left  to  wear  out,"  she  answers. 


THE   CRAY  FAMILY. 


60 


"*Well,  jou'rc  not  so  strong  i\3  you  ouglit  to 
be  nnd  you  knows  it ;  nil  the  more  reason  you 
FhoulJ  hearken  to  wliat  your  friemls  tell  you. 
This  ra.ikes  the  sixth  time  you've  been  on  the 
tramp  after  that  'Aniilton." 

"  Don't  speak  hij"  name  !  "  sliu  fays,  <iiiickly  ; 
"  I  can't  bear  it." 

"  Why  don't  you  forgot  it,  then  1 "  ho  an- 
swers, almost  savagely,  ns  ho  deposits  his  tools 
ill  a  comer  of  the  room. 

"  0  Joel !  "  sho  wails,  rocking  herself  back- 
ward and  forward,  "  I  can't  forget  it — I  wif^h  I 
could.  It  seems  written  in  letters  of  fire  wher- 
ever I  turn.  There  have  1  been  toiling  away  for 
the  last  three  months  (I  took  the  accounts  at  a 
large  West-end  shop  this  time),  and  walking  ray- 
pelf  off  my  legs  between  whiles,  and  yet  I  can't 
hear  any  thing.  I  believe  I've  been  to  the  house 
of  every  Hamilton  in  London,  but  it  only  ended 
ia  disappointment.  I've  spent  all  my  money,  anil 
had  to  sell  my  clothes  off  my  back  to  get  home 
afTiiin  into  the  bargain — and  here  I  am,  just  as  I 
went !  "  and  Myra  throws  her  head  down  on  her 
outstretched  arms,  and  falls  to  sobbing. 

Tlir.  soba  melt  Joel's  honest  heart. 

"  My  poor  lamb ! "  he  says,  tenderly,  "  you'd 
better  give  it  np  once  and  for  all — it  bcan't  of  no 
manner  of  use.  And  suppose  you  found  him, 
now ! — just  suppose,  is  he  the  man  to  right 
you  ? " 

"Oh !  I  don't  know — I  don't  know,"  she  says, 
amid  her  tear.s. 

"  Yes,  you  do  know  ;  only  you  haven't  the 
courage  to  speak  out.  Ha  was  sick  of  you  three 
years  ago ;  he  told  yon  as  much  :  is  he  likely  to 
be  sweet  on  you  now  ?  " 

But  to  this  question  there  comes  no  answer 
but  her  sobs. 

"  I  was  sweet  on  you  long  before  that,  Myra," 
continues  her  cousin,  presently,  in  a  low  voice  ; 
'•  but  I  ain't  changed  toward  you.  'Why  won't 
you  let  mc  mend  this  business  ?  There  ain't  much 
dilTercnco  between  ono  miin  and  another,  but 
there's  a  deal  to  a  woman  in  an  honest  name ; 
and  that's  what  I'll  give  you  to-morrow,  ray  dear, 
if  you'll  only  make  up  your  mind  to  it." 

"  Don't,  Joel !  pray  don't ! " 

"Are  you  never  going  to  have  another  cn- 
6wer  for  me  save  that  ?  Ono  would  think  I 
wanted  to  do  you  a  harm  by  marrying  you. 
'Tain't  every  one  as  would  do  it,  Myra ;  but  I 
knows  all,  and  yet  I  says  again,  I'll  make  an 
honest  woman  of  you  to-morrow,  if  you'll  choose 
to  be  my  wife." 

"  I  can't— indeed  I  can't ! " 


"That  ain't  true!  You  eoidd  do  it  well 
enough,  if  you  chose,"  replies  Joel,  moving  a  little 
away  from  her. 

"  Lor,  Myra !  are  you  back  again  ?  "  inter- 
rupts  the  coarse  voice  of  Mrs.  Cray,  as  she  ap- 
pears at  the  kitchen-door,  with  her  sleeves  tucked 
up  to  her  elbows,  and  wiping  her  steaming  arms 
and  hands  upon  her  canvas  apron  ;  "  when  did 
you  reach  ?  '' 

"About  an  hour  ago,"  says  the  girl,  wearily. 

"  And  no  wiser  than  you  went,  I  reckon  ?  " 

"  No  wiser  than  I  went  I  " 

"In  course  not:  you're  a  fool  fi)r  going. 
Trapesing  about  the  country  in  that  fashion  after 
a  wild-goose  chase,  when  you  ought  to  stop  at 
home  and  look  after  the  children  !  " 

"  I  shall  stop,  now." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  I'm  sure.  I've  been 
worked  to  death,  between  the  brats  and  the 
linen,  since  you  went.  And  there's  been  fine 
changes  up  at  the  Court,  too.  The  colond's 
brought  home  his  lady  ;  and  a  nice-looking  crcc- 
tur  she  is,  so  I  hear  (Joel's  iscen  her — he  can  tell 
Tou);  and  old  Mother  Quckott's  gone  off  in  a 
hufl".  So  much  the  better  ;  /don't  wish  her  good 
luck,  for  one ;  and  if  I  see  a  chance  of  getting 
back  the  Court  washing,  why,  I  shall  do  it,  par- 
ticular if  the  colonel's  lady  is  what  Joel  seems  to 
think  her. — Why,  Joel,  lad,  what's  up  with  you  ? 
— j'ou  look  as  if  you'd  had  a  crack  on  the  head." 

"You'd  Letter  ask  Myra,"  replies  Joel,  sul- 
lenly. 

"Why,  you're  never  at  loggerheads  again, 
and  she  not  home  an  hour! — Here,  Polly,  lass, 
bring  Tommy  over  to  me,  and  go  and  see  about 
setting  out  tea  in  the  back-kitchen.  The  kettle 
ain't  filled  yet.  And  you  sit  quiet  there,"  she 
continues,  to  the  unfortunate  Tommy,  as  she 
bumps  him  handsomely  down  on  the  stone  floor  to 
enforce  her  command,  and  leaves  him  there  whim- 
pering. At  the  sound  of  the  child's  voice,  Myra 
rai^'es  her  eyes  quickly,  and  glances  at  him ;  then 
turns  away,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and  resumes  her 
former  position. 

"  What's  up,  between  you  ?  "  demands  Mrs. 
Cray  of  her  niece,  when  she  has  time  to  revert  to 
the  subject  in  hand.  "  I  suppose  Joel  don't  like 
your  ways  of  going  on,  and  so  you're  huffed  at 
it." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  replies  Myra.  "  Joel  wants 
mc  to  do  what's  impossible,  and  he's  angry  be- 
cause I  tell  him  so." 

"  I  wants  her  to  be  my  wife,  mother — that's 
the  long  and  short  of  it.  I  want  her  to  give  up 
running  back'ards  and  forrards  aftera  will-o'-the- 


m 


te 


^1- 


1:I 


C'^ 


m 


■ '    'V 


W: 


10 


"NO  IXTEXTIONS." 


wisp  (for  If  she  found  tlmt  fine  gentlumnn  as  lici- 
mind  is  bent  upon  to-nioi-rcT,  he'd  no  more  marry 
bcr  tlimi  lie  would  you),  and  bide  here  at  IViest- 
li'y,  and  brint;  up  an  honest  man's  children.  She 
knowa  as  I've  hankered  after  her  for  year;*,  and 
that  I'd  make  her  a  good  husband,  and  never 
throw  nothing  of  what's  gone  In  her  teeth.  Hut 
she  puts  nie  off  with  saying  it's  iuipos.slble.  "What 
do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  think  she  must  bo  out  of  her  mind  not  to 
jump  at  it.  Why,  here  comes  as  good  a  fellow  as 
ever  worked  for  his  bread,  and  offers  to  bcmean 
himself  by  looking  over  all  your  tricks  and  mak- 
ing an  honest  woman  of  you,  and  you  won't  have 
him.    You  must  bo  mad  I  " 

"  Perhaps  I  am,  aunt ;  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"  Don't  talk  such  rubbish — (sit  down  when  I 
tell  you,  will  ycr  ? — or  I'll  give  ycr  something  to 
remember  mc  by  !)  "  This  par  parenlMse  to  the 
little  scapo-goat  To.iimy,  who  has  dared  to  rise. 
Mrs.  Cray  does  not  oily  promise — slic  performs  ; 
and  the  child  does  not  whimper  this  time — he 
roars. 

Myra  springs  up  hastily  and  snatches  him 
from  her  aunt's  hands. 

"How  can  you  be  so  cruel  ?  You  treat  him 
like  a  dog ! " 

"  Woll,  he  ain't  of  much  more  value,  nor  half 
so  much  use.  lie  cumbers  up  the  place  terrible, 
and  is  a  deal  of  trouble  with  his  violent  ways. 
I've  said  more  than  once  lately,  that  he's  more 
bother  than  he's  worth." 

"  Any  ways,  you're  paid  for  him,"  retorts  the 
other. 

"  Do  you  think  I'd  keep  him  without  ? " 

"Well,  you  might  give  a  little  feeling  for  the 
money,  then.  You'll  split  the  child's  head  open 
some  day  " 

"  And  a  good  job,  too,  if  I  did.  He  ain't  likely 
to  be  missed." 

The  younger  woman's  breast  heaves,  but  she 
does  not  answer. 

Joel  tries  to  make  peace  between  them. 

"  Come !  don't  you  think  no  more  about  it, 
Myra.  His  'cd  ain't  split  this  time,  and  mother 
says  more  than  she  means." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Joel,"  says  Mrs.  Cray. 
"  If  she  scorns  you,  nothing  can't  be  too  hard  for 
her." 

"  Nothing  has  ever  been  too  hard  for  mc — in 
your  opinion,"  replies  Myra.  "I  wish  I  was 
gone,  and  out  of  it  all — that  I  do !  0,  my 
God ! " — and  with  that  commences  weeping  afresh. 
But  her  weakness  is  soon  interrupted  by  her 
aunt's  hurried  remonstrance. 


"  Comi',  now  I  shake  yourself  up,  giil !  Tlicic'j 
quality  coming  up  the  path. — Here,  Joel!  vim 
can  it  be?" 

"  Ulcst  if  it  ain't  tlio  colonel's  lady  !  " 

And  before  they  have  time  to  do  more  lli;ai 
realize  the  fact,  Irene's  tap  has  sounded  on  tliu 
half-opened  door,  and  her  voice  is  ai^king  An-  ail- 
mission.  Joel,  very  red  in  the  face,  stands  bult. 
upright  against  the  chinmey-place.  Myra  hastily 
passes  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  and  turns  hut 
head  another  way ;  while  Mrs.  Cray  advances  td 
receive  the  visitor  with  her  forgiving  nurse-tliil^; 
hiding  his  head  in  lier  skirts, 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Cray  ?"  demands  Irene. 

"  Yes,  mum."  Mrs.  Cray,  remembering  hor 
last  interview  with  Mrs  Quckett,  and  ignorant  iti 
to  what  dealings  the  Court  people  nitiy  now  wish 
to  have  with  her,  is  rather  stiff  and  reserved  at 
first,  and  stands  upon  her  dignity. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  if  you  can  do  mc  a  favor, 
Mrs.  Cray.  I  have  some  friends  staying  with  ii,e 
who  want  some  muslin  dresses  got  up  in  a  burn 
for  a  flower-show  at  Fenton,  and  the  Court  huiii- 
dress  cannot  undertake  to  let  us  have  them  by 
Wednesday.     Could  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  that  depends  a  deal  upon  what  tlicy 
are  like,  mum,"  n'plies  Mrs.  Cray ;  whereupon 
follows  a  vivid  description  of  puffs,  and  flounce-, 
and  laces,  (piitc  uimeccs.^ary  to  the  well-doing  of 
my  story. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  give  you  sali'- 
faction,  mum,"  is  the  laundress's  concluding  sen- 
tence ;  "  for  it  won't  be  the  first  time  as  I've  | 
worked  for  the  Court  gentlefolk  by  a  many." 

"  Indeed  !  I  never  heard  your  name  till  tliii 
afternoon,  when  my  maid  mentioned  it  to  me." 

"  That's  likcJy  enough,  mum.    I  don't  suppose 
you  would  go  to  hear  it  mentioned  ;  but  I  worked 
for  the  Court  for  four  years  all  the  same.    And 
it  was  a  hard  day  for  me,  with  all  my  poor  cliil- 1 
dren  (six  of  them,  if  there's  one),  when  I  got  I 
turned  away  for  asking  my  due." 

"  Who  turned  you  away,  Mrs.  Cray  ?  " 

"  Why,  bless  you,  mum,  Mrs.  Quckett,  as  was  I 
mistress  of  the  Court  then — who  else  should  have  | 
done  it? — and  only  because  I  wanted  my  three 
weeks'  money,  as  I  believe  was  lining  her  owu  I 
pockets  all  the  time.    It's  been  a  heavy  loss  to 
me,  mum.    But  wherc's  the  use  of  talking,  when 
a  woman  like  that,  as  no  one  in  the  village  has  a 
good   word    for,  is   queen,   and    nothing    less  i 
You'll  hardly  believe  it,  mum,  but  she  ordered  me  | 
straight  out  of  the  house  then  and  there,  and  for- 
bid even  the  servants  to  send  me  their  bits  of  | 
things — and  that  was  a  couple  or  more  pound; 


>..  -_  k^.  ..  -  --•i^-a.-ii-.-jajLa. 


IRENE'S  \liilT. 


n 


L'l'O,    Joi-l  !    V,  ll(j 

lady ! " 

do  more  tl>:iu 
oiiiidud  on  till' 

asking  for  lul. 
cc,  stands  bull- 
.     Myra  liastilj 

and  turns  lar 
■ay  advances  to 
•ing  nursc-tliilJ 

ids  Irene, 
menibering  lior 
and  ignorant  m 
3  may  now  wish 
ind  reserved  at 

n  do  nic  a  favor, 
staying  with  niC 
ot  lip  in  a  hurry 
the  Court  liiun. 
J  have  tlicm  by 

upon  what  tlicy 
ray ;  wliereiipon 
[fri,  and  flounce?, 
,lic  well-doing  of 

give  you  sati:-- 1 
concluding  sen- 
St  time  as  I've  | 
by  a  many." 
ur  name  till  tliii 
ned  it  to  me." 

I  don't  suppose 
but  I  worked  I 
the  same.     Anil  | 
ill  my  poor  cliil- 
ae),  when  I  got  I 


Cray  ?  " 
Quekett,  as  was 
else  should  have 
anted  my  three 
lining  her  own 
a  heavy  loss  to 
if  talking,  when 
the  village  has  a 

nothing    less! 

she  ordered  me 
d  there,  and  for- 
ne  their  bits  of  ] 
or  more  pound: 


J  quarter  out  of  niy  pocket,  lot  alone  the 
otlier." 

Irene  grows  rather  red  during  this  harangue, 
and  stands  witli  her  eyes  on  tlio  floor,  trying  to 
break  the  tip  of  her  parasol  by  digging  it  into  a 
dusty  crevice  between  tlio  flags,  She  does  not 
relish  hearing  this  common  woman  speak  the 
truth,  and  as  soon  as  there  is  a  break  in  the  eou- 
versation  she  resents  it. 

"  Well,  tjuekett  is  not  mistress  of  the  Court 
now,  Mrs.  Cray,  as  I  suppose  I  need  not  tell  you  ; 
and  her  likes  and  dislikes  are  nothing  whatever 
to  nie.  We  shall  often  have  friends  staying  with 
us,  and  the  washing  is  likely  to  be  more  than  our 
I.mndress  can  do.  At  all  events,  I  can  promise 
YOU  shall  have  back  the  servants'  linen  ;  and,  if  I 
am  satisfied  with  the  way  in  which  you  get  up 
the  dresses  I  speak  of,  you  shall  have  some  of 
mine  also." 

"  Oh  !  thank  you,  mum,  kindly.  I  saw  you 
was  a  real  lady  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  you ; 
and  as  for  my  sou  there,  who's  seen  you  a  many 
times,  'Mother,'  he  says  to  me — " 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  interrupts  Irene,  anxious  to  cut 
short  so  embarrassing  an  eulogiura ;  "  and  I  shall 
be  sure  to  have  tlie  dresses  by  Wednesday,  shall 
I  not  ? " 

"  We  can  let  the  lady  have  thorn  by  Wednes- 
day, can't  wo,  Myra  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Cray,  appealing 
to  her  niece.  "  This  is  Monday,  and  you  feels 
well  enough  to  help,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  I'll  help,"  is  the  listless  answer. 

"Is  that  your  daughter?  Is  she  ill?"  de- 
mands Irene. 

"She's  my  niece,  mum,  and  but  a  poor  cree- 
tur  just  now — there's  no  denying  of  it." 

"  Indeed,  she  does  look  very  ill,"  says  Irene, 
Bvrapathizingly,  as  she  appoaches  Myra's  side, 
and  gazes  with  sad  interest  at  the  girl's  hollow 
checks  and  staring  eyes,  in  which  the  traces  of 
tears  are  still  visible.   "  Do  you  sufler  any  pain  ?  " 

At  first  Myra  is  disposed  to  answer  rudely,  or 
not  at  all.  She  is  sensitively  alive  to  the  fact  of 
her  altered  appearance,  and  always  ready  to  take 
umbrage  at  any  allusion  made  to  it ;  but  she 
looks  up  into  the  sweet,  kind  face  that  is  bent 
over  hers,  and  feels  forced  to  be  couiteous  even 
against  her  will. 

"None  now — sometimes  I  do." 

"  Where  is  it?  Y'ou  do  not  mind  my  asking, 
do  you  ?  Perhaps  I  might  send  you  something 
that  would  do  you  good." 

"Here!"  replied  Myra,  pressing  her  hand 
just  below  her  collar-bones,  "  at  night,  when  the 
cough's  bad,  and  I  can't  sleep  lor  it.    I  some- 


times fuel  as  though  I  should  go  mad  'Aitli  the 
pain  here." 

"  And  what  kind  of  a  pain  U  it  ?  " 

"  It's  just  a  gnawing — nolliiug  more;  and  I'm 
a  little  sore  sometimes." 

"  And  gjie  can't  eat  nothing,  poor  dear,"  in- 
terposes Mrs.  Cray.  "  Slie  turns  against  meat 
and  pudding  as  thougli  they  was  poison;  but  she 
drinks  water  by  the  gallon.  I'm  sure  tlie  buck- 
ets of  water  as  that  girl  have  dvnuk — " 

"  And  docs  not  washing  ujake  you  worse  ?  " 
again  inrjuires  Irene. 

"  Sometimes  ;  but  I  don't  stand  at  it  long — I 
can't." 

"  And  how  do  you  employ  your  time,  then, 
Myra  ?  " 

•'  I'm  just  home  from  a  job  in  London,  ma'auj. 
I'm  good  at  keeping  accounts,  and  such  like — 
it's  what  I've  been  brought  up  to ;  but  it  tried 
me  rather  this  hot  weather,  and  I'm  glad  to  be 
back  in  Priestley  again." 

•'  She  ain't  fit  for  nothing  of  that  sort  now," 
interpolates  Mrs.  Cray. 

"  I  dare  say  not.  Sbo  must  take  care  of  her- 
self till  she  gets  stronger,"  says  Irene,  cheerfully, 
"  I  will  send  you  some  soup  from  the  Court,  Myra 
— perhaps  that  will  tempt  you  to  eat.  And  are 
you  fond  of  reading  ?  Would  you  like  to  have 
some  books  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  a  fine  scholar,  mum,"  again  puts 
in  Mrs.  Cray,  "  Many  and  raany's  the  time  I've 
thought  we'd  given  her  too  much  larning;  but 
her  poor  uncle  that's  dead  and  gone  used  to  say — '' 
Hero  she  interrupts  herself  to  give  her  skirts 
a  good  shake,  "  Get  out  of  that,  do,  you  var- 
mint I  What  do  you  mean  by  hanging  on  to  me 
al'tcr  that  fashion  ? " — which  adjuration  is  suc- 
ceeded by  the  appearance  of  Tommy's  curly  head 
and  dirty  face  in  the  full  light  of  day. 

"  W/iose  child  is  that  i  "  cries  Irene,  suddenly. 

The  question  is  so  unexpected,  that  no  one 
seems  inclined  to  answer  it.  Joel  changes  feet 
awkwardly  upon  the  hearth,  which  he  has  never 
quitted,  and  Myra  turns  round  in  her  chair  and 
looks  full  into  Irene's  face,  whoso  eyes  are  riveted 
upon  the  child,  still  clinging  for  protection  to  the 
skirts  of  his  nurse. 

Mrs,  Cray  is  the  first  to  find  her  tongue. 

"  What !  this  boy,  mum,  as  is  hanging  on  my 
gownd  in  this  ill-eonvenient  fashion  ? — but  lor ! 
children  will  be  children,"  she  continues,  as  she 
puts  her  hand  on  Tommy's  head  and  pushes  him 
forward  for  Irene's  better  inspection.  "  Well, 
he's  not  mine,  though  I  look  on  him  most  as  my 
own.     To  tell  truth,  he's  a  nuss-child." 


Ill 


^^'i 
« 


n 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


ii ,,,  ,;■,) 


"A  nurac-cliilil I  You  arc  paid  for  keeping 
him  ;  hut  who,  tlicn,  aio  his  parents  ?  " 

"Tliey'rc  very  rcspectablo  people,  mum  — 
quite  gentlefoHtH,  ns  you  niny  say.  I  thinit  his 
pa's  in  the  grocery  line ;  but  I  couldn't  Hpe;ik  for 
certain.  My  money  is  paid  regular,  and  that's  all 
I  have  to  look  after." 

"Oh,  of  course — of  course.  And — what  Is 
his  name  ? " 

"  Ik's  called  Tommy,  mum. — Go  and  speak 
to  tlio  lady.  Tommy." 

"  But  his  surname?" 

"  Well,  wc  haven't  much  call  hero  to  use  his 
other  name,  mum;  and  I'm  sure  it's  almost 
slipped  my  memory. — What's  the  name  as  the 
gentleman  writes  as  owns  of  Tommy,  Joel  ?  "  she 
continues,  appealing,  in  rather  a  conscious  man- 
ner, to  her  son. 

"  I  don't  know.  You'd  better  ask  Myra," 
he  replies,  gruffly. 

"Urown,"  says  Myra,  quickly;  "the  child's 
name  is  Brown.  You  might  go  to  remember  as 
much  as  tlia*   aunt." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  signify,"  interrupts  Irene, 
who  perceives  she  has  stumbled  on  an  unwel- 
come subject,  "  it  is  of  no  consequence ;  "  and 
then,  in  her  fresh  summer  dress,  she  kneels  down 
on  the  uncovered  stone  floor,  that  has  been 
trampled  by  dusty  feet  all  day  long.  "  Come 
here,  Tommy.  Won't  you  come  and  speak  to 
me?  Look  what  pretty  things  I  have  here;" 
and  she  dangles  her  watch-chain,  with  its  bunch 
of  glittering  charms,  before  his  eyes. 

Tommy  cannot  resist  the  bait ;  curiosity  casts 
out  fear ;  and  in  another  moment  his  deep  blue 
eyes  arc  bent  greedily  upon  the  flashing  baubles, 
while  his  dirty  little  fingers  are  leaving  their 
dull  impress  upon  pencil-case  and  locket  and 
seal. 

"  Oh  dear  !  mum,  he  ain't  fit  as  you  should 
touch  him ;  and  his  feet  arc  trampling  the  edge 
of  your  gownd. — Here,  Jenny,  make  haste  and 
put  Tommy  under  the  pump  till  the  lady  looks 
at  him." 

"  No,  no !  pray  don't ;  he  is  doing  no  harm." 

So  the  dirty  little  brat  is  left  in  peace,  while 
the  lady  takes  stock  of  his  eyes  and  mouth  and 
hair.  Once  in  his  ecstasy  at  finding  a  gold  fish 
among  her  treasures,  he  raises  his  eyes  suddenly 
to  hers,  and  she  darts  forward  as  suddenly  and 
kisses  him.  Then,  becoming  awaro  that  she  has 
done  something  rather  out  of  the  common,  and 
that  Mrs.  Cray  and  Joel  and  Myra  are  looking  at 
her  with  surprise,  Irene  rises  to  her  feet,  dragging 
the  bunch  of  charms  far  out  of  disappointed 


Tommy's  reach,  ond,  with  a  heightened  color, 
stammers  something  very  like  an  apology. 

"I  like  little  children,"  she  says,  hin-ritHlly; 
"  and — und — ho  has  very  blue  eyes. — Are  you 
fond  of  lollipops.  Tommy  ?  " 

"  I  want  the  fiss,"  says  Tommy,  from  behind 
Mrs.  Cray's  gown  again. 

"  Oh,  fie  I  then  you  can't  have  it.  Now  be'uvc 
yourself,  or  I'll  give  you  a  good  hiding,"  is  tlie 
gentle  rejoinder. 

Irene  feels  Tcry  much  inclined  to  give  him 
the  "  fiss,"  but  has  sufficient  sense  to  know  it 
would  be  a  very  fooli^ih  thing  to  do  ;  so  she  takes 
a  shilling  out  of  her  purse  instead. 

"  See,  Tommy  1  a  beautiful  bright  new  shilling ! 
won't  you  go  und  buy  some  lollipops  with  it  ?  " 

Tommy  advances  his  hand  far  enough  to  grab 
the  coin,  and  then  retreats  in  silence. 

"  Say  '  thankyc '  to  the  lady,"  suggests  Mrs. 
Cray. 

L'ut  Tommy  is  dumb. 

"  Say  '  thankyc '  at  once  ;  d'ye  hear  ?  "  and 
a  good  shake  is  followed  by  an  ctiually  good  cuff 
on  the  small  delinquent's  head. 

"Oh!  don't  strike  him,"  cries  Irene,  earnest- 
ly— "  pray  don't  strike  him  ;  he  is  but  a  baby. 
Poor  little  Tommy !  I  am  sure  he  will  say  '  thank 
you,*  when  he  knows  me  better." 

"You're  too  good  to  him,  mum;  you  can't 
do  nothing  with  children  without  hitting  'em  now 
and  then :  which  you  will  find  when  you  have  a 
young  family  of  your  own." 

"  I  must  go  now.  My  friends  are  waiting  for 
me,"  says  Irene,  whose  color  has  risen  at  the 
last  allusion,  "  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Cray  !  Send 
up  for  the  dresses  to-night ;  and  the  cook  shall 
give  you  some  soup,  at  the  same  time,  for  your 
niece." 

B'lt  she  has  not  long  stepped  over  the  thresh- 
old, before  Myra  is  after  her ;  and  they  meet  by 
the  ivy-covered  well. 

"You'll — you'll — be  coming  this  way  again, 
won't  you  ?  "  says  the  girl,  panting  even  with 
that  slight  effort. 

"  If  you  wish  it,  certainly.  Would  you  like 
me  to  come  and  see  you,  Myra  ?  " 

"  Very  much !  There  are  few  faces  here  look 
at  me  as  yours  docs." 

"  My  poor  girl !  then  I  will  come,  with  the 
greatest  pleasure." 

"  Soon  ? " 

"Very  soon."  And  so  they  part ;  and  Irene 
joins  Mary  Cavendish  and  Oliver  Ralston,  who 
have  been  walking  up  and  down  the  green  lane 
outside  the  cottage,  waiting  for  her. 


UYRA  AND  HER  CHILD. 


»8 


"  What  a  time  you've  been  !  " 

"  Have  I  ?  There's  a  poor  yoiin^  woman  there 
In  a  consumption,  or  sometliin;^  of  tlio  sort,  wlio 
Interested  me,  Art.l  sueii  a  dear  little  ehild: 
a  nurse-eliild  of  Mrs.  Cniy's.     I  staid  to  talk  to 

them." 

"  IIow  long  is  It  slneo  you  have  developed  a 
lore  for  children,  Irene?  "  Bays  Mury  Cavendish, 
lauglilng.  "I  dill  not  think  they  were  at  all  in 
your  line." 

"  I  never  di.sliked  them  ;  nnd  thla  bahy  has 
such  beautiful,  earnest  eyes." 

"  It  is  remarkable  what  lovely  eyes  some 
of  the  children  of  the  poor  have.  I  remember, 
when  I  was  in  Berwick — " 

"  Let  us  get  over  tlic  stile  here  ;  it  loads  to 
the  Court  by  a  much  shorter  way,"  exelairas 
Irone,  interrupting  her  cousin  in  the  nidest  man- 
ner in  the  world.  Hut  so  is  Miss  Cavendish  al- 
ways interrupted  if  nhe  ventures  to  make  the 
slightest  reference  to  her  visit  of  the  summer. 
Siie  has  been  dying,  heaps  of  times,  to  relate  all 
the  glories  of  that  period  to  Irene,  but  she  has  nev- 
er been  able  to  advance  farther  than  the  fact  that 
they  took  place.  The  mere  name  of  Rerwiok  is 
sulHcient  to  send  Mrs.  Mordaunt  out  of  the  room 
or — as  in  the  present  instance — over  the  stile. 

Irene  cannot  get  the  remembrance  of  poor 
Myra's  hollow  features  and  attenuated  figure  out 
of  her  head.  It  forms  the  staple  subject  of  her 
conversation  at  the  dinner-table,  and  sha  talks 
of  it  all  the  evening,  while  her  guests  are  ram- 
bling about  the  gardens  and  shrubbery  ;  and  she 
is  sitting  on  a  bench  with  her  husband  in  the 
dusk,  and  flirting  with  him  in  her  little  quiet 
way. 

"It  is  very  sad,"  says  Colonel  Mordaunt,  for 
.ibout  the  fiftieth  time,  "  and  I'm  very  glad  that 
Tou  should  have  fallen  in  with  her,  my  dear.    It 

I  \i  in  such  cases  that  the  rich  can  do  so  much  to 
help  the  poor.  Sickness  is  bad  enough  to  bear 
when  wo  are  surrounded  by  every  luxury ;  it 
must  be  twice  as  hard  when  one  is  deprived  of 

I  tlie  necessaries  of  life."  And  ho  continues  to 
pulT  solemnly  into  the  evening  air,  while  his  arm 
tightens  round  the  waist  of  his  wife. 

"Yes,"  says  Irene,  leaning  up  against  him, 
"  and  you  should  see  how  thin  and  pale  she  is, 

I  Philip.  Her  bones  look  as  though  they  were 
coming  through  the  skin.  And  she  has  no  ap- 
petite, her  aunt  says.     I  have  ordered  cook  to 

I  Bend  her  down  some  soup  and  jelly." 

"  Quito  right.     I  am  afraid  you  would  find 

I  Beveral  more  in  the  same  condition  if  you  were 


to  look  for  them.  Country  poor  are  too  proud 
to  hi'ii." 

"  I  will  make  a  point  of  looking.  Hut  I  nrv- 
er  saw  any  one  so  terribly  tiiiii  before.  And  her 
eyes  are  hollow,  jioor  thing ! " 

"  You  seem  to  have  talccii  a  great  fancy  to 
this  girl,  Irene." 

"She  has  awakened  a  great  interest  in  me, 
though  I  cannot  till  why.  Slie  seems  more  than 
ill — she  looks  unhappy." 

"  And  have  you  told  C'llonel  Mordaunt  about 
the  child  you  took  such  a  funey  to  J  '  laughs 
Mary  Cavendish,  who  is  loitering  near  enough  to 
hear  the  last  words.  "  It's  a  new  thing  for  Irene 
to  be  running  after  babies — is^n't  it.  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt ?  " 

Irene  flushes ;  it  is  uot  so  dark  but  ho  can 
see  the  change,  and  n  new  tenderness  creeps 
over  him. 

"  What  baby,  darling?  "  be  says,  as  he  presses 
her  closer  to  him.  Irene  is  vexed  at  the  turn  in 
the  conversation;  she  is  not  a  bit  sentimental, 
and  she  cannot  affeet  to  be  so. 

"It  was  not  a  bal)y,"'  she  replies,  almost 
curtly ;  "  it  was  a  big  ehild  two  or  three  years 
old." 

"  And  you  took  a  fancy  to  it — why  ?  " 

Colonel  Mordaunt's  "  why "  has  a  totally 
different  bearing  to  the  "  why  "  that  falls  upon 
Irene's  cars.  She  grows  scarlet,  and  almost 
starts  away  from  him. 

"  Why ! — why  !  For  no  particular  reason- 
only — because — I  don't  care  for  children  in  gen- 
eral, I  know — but — but — " 

While  she  is  hammering  out  a  reasonable  an- 
swer, her  husband  supplies  it. 

"  But  you  thought,"  he  whispers  close  into 
her  ear,  "  that  some  day  you  might  possess  such 
a  ehild  of  your  own,  Irene  ! " 

"  I — I  thought —  Good  Heavens,  no !  I  nev- 
er thought  any  thing  of  the  kind,"  she  exclaims 
aloud ;  and  then,  out  of  sheer  nervousness, 
she  laughs.  The  laugh  grates  on  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt's ear  ;  he  draws  himself  away,  not  offended, 
but  hurt, 

"If  such  a  prospect  holds  no  charms  for  you, 
Irene,  you  might  keep  the  unpleas.mt  truth  to 
yourself.    It  is  not  necessary  to  laugh  at  me." 

"  Laugh  ! — did  I  laugh  ?  "  she  replies,  still 
tittering.  "  I'm  sure  I  didn't  know  it.  I  don't 
think  I  quite  know  what  I  did  do."  And  with 
this,  the  incomprehensible  creature  falls  to  cry- 
ing,  not  heavily,  but  in  a  smart  little  shower  of 
tears  that  savor  strongly  of  the  hysterical.  Colo- 
nel Mordaunt  does  not  know  what  to  make  of  it; 


I 


I'm 


m 


u 


"  NO  INTENTION'S." 


i  'il ' 


': ,«.' 


i  m 


>■'; 


n  H 


ho  has  been  lltllo  udcd  to  nomvn,  iiml  Ma  ono 
bc'uniH  to  liiiii,  lit  tiiiioM,  II  invstoi'}' ;  but  lie  uilopta 
thv  aafo  cuiiiiiu  :  hu  tlirous  h\i  uiiuh  about  lior 
nock  and  begs  bur  nut  to  tbink  a>iy  moro  about 
it.  And,  n|)|iiii'i;iilly,  Iienu  adoptH  li'm  udvice,  for 
(«hc  ihit'S  li  T  (')C'!«,  und  llil.i  iiwiiy  from  liii  sidi-, 
and  tbo  next  uiuutu  bo  biurii  litr  li){bt  luiigli 
rin;{iiij;  uiit  tbrou^h  llio  tihrubbcry  at  soiio  Ji'st 
ol'  Oliver  J{lll^ton^^. 

They  are  i\  very  happy  parly  ut  Ten  Court 
nuw  ;  even  Itiubella  Morduunl  fiucnis  to  have  cri'pl 
out  of  her  shell,  and  to  dare  to  enjoy  her.soU'iirtiT 
a  dennirely  (piiet  fashion  ;  and  as  for  Colonel  Mor- 
dauut,  ho  ha4  been  a  ditl'erent  man  since  rid  of 
the  presence  of  the  awful  Mrs,  Quekett.  Not  that 
ho  was  quiet  himself  for  some  days  after  the  house- 
keeper's  summary  departure.  A  gloomy  dread 
seemed  hanj;iii|^  over  him  at  that  time,  for  whieh 
Irene  was  unable  to  account.  Uut  at  the  end  of 
a  fortnif^lit,  Mrs.  Quekett's  teuipcr  h.ivinf;  evapo- 
rated with  change  of  air,  she  thought  fit  to  send 
her  master  a  letter,  written  as  though  nothing  un- 
pleasant had  happened  between  them,  whieh  in- 
timated her  whereabouts,  and  wound  up  with  her 
compliments  to  bio  "  good  lady." 

Colonel  Mordaunt's  mind  was  instantly  re- 
lieved; and  tbo  next  post  took  beck  a  length  ^ 
epistle  in  reply.  Irene  faw  neither  of  these  let- 
ters, nor  wished  to  do  si< ;  but  she  could  not  Ii'  Ip 
observing  how  much  moro  at  ease  her  husband 
appeared  to  lie  after  receiving  und  dispatching 
them. 

And  with  the  fear  of  Mrs.  Quekett's  everlast- 
ing displeasure  lifted  off  his  mind,  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt  became  pleasanter  and  more  lively  than 
she  had  seen  him  since  their  marriage.  Ho  petted 
Irene  all  day  long,  chaffed  Isabella,  and  appeared 
thoroughly  to  enjoy  the  companionsliip  of  Oliver, 
as  though,  in  the  affection  of  these  three,  he  had 
all  he  desired  in  this  life  to  make  him  happy. 

His  wife  had  begun  to  wish  that  it  could  go 
on  thus  forever,  and  that  they  had  no  friends 
coming  to  break  in  upon  their  domestic  felicity. 
But  the  guests  have  arrived,  and  the  unrulUed 
itttcrcourse  is  continued,  and  Irene  is  being  car- 
riertl  quietly  along  the  stream  of  life  as  though  -lie 
had  left  all  its  storms  behind  her,  and  there  were 
no  black  clouds  gathering  in  the  future. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  is  of  an  exceedingly  benevo- 
lent nature ;  he  takes  great  interest  in  the  poor 
of  the  parish,  and  never  neglects  an  opportunity 
of  sympathizing  with  or  relieving  them ;  but  after 
a  while  he  docs  grow  very  sick  of  the  name  of 
Myra  Cray.    It  appears  as  though  his  wife  were 


always  hat|)lug  on  it;  every  tuple,  from  nlmt. 
ever  point  Htaited,  ve(  r;<  round,  in  some  niyitto. 
rious  manner,  to  the  liltk  glil  at  the  luundio.V* 
cot'ugo;  and,  whenever  ho  mlssen  Irene,  he  is 
sure  to  hear  that  the  has  "jiiitt  run  down  "  i.j 
the  end  of  the  village  with  a  book  or  a  puddl:,. 
At  last  be  grows  lldgety  im  the  subject. 

"You  are,  surely,  never  going  out  in  ilil. 
broiling  sun  1 "  he  exclaims,  one  hot  morning  iii 
Uctuber,  as  bo  meets  bis  wife  arrayed  fur  wall.in^', 
a  ba.-kct  of  fruit  on  fine  arm,  antl  a  bottle  (jf 
wine  under  the  oilier.  '  I  cannot  allow  it,  Irelv. 
You  will  get  fever  or  Bonieihing  of  the  sort:  yii., 
mim  wait  till  the  day  Is  conler." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  w.iit,  I'hilip,"  Atv  say«,  coaxlti^'ly, 
"  for  poor  ilyra  is  so  very  much  wr)r.«e.  i^h 
broke  a  blood-ve,-sel  last  night,  and  they  lim\ 
just  sent  up  to  tell  me  so." 

"  What  good  can  you  do  by  going  down?" 

"I  don't  know:  but  I  think  »ilie  will  feel  my 
j)re.-ience  to  be  a  comfort ;  nhe  has  taken  a  gnut 
laiiey  to  me,  you  know,  besides,  I  want  to  cam 
her  a  few  j; tapes." 

"  .Send  tlieni  by  a  servant.  I  cannot  have  you 
risk  your  health  by  encountering  such  fatigut 
for  any  one." 

"  It  will  not  fatigue  ;  and  I  want  to  see  Myia  | 
■  iiyself." 

"Take  the  pony-chaise,  then." 

"  No,  iudeed  !   before  your  lazy  grooms  will  I 
have  put  the  harness  together,  I  eball  be  by  lict 
bedside."     And,  miming  p.ist  him,  t^lie  takes  l.i.r 
way  down  to  the  village. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  i.^  vexed.  lie  likes  !^ 
wife  to  be  interested  in  the  parishioner^,  but  \,i' 
visits  of  late  have  been  confined  to  the  Grays—  I 
who  are  generally  considered  to  be  the  least  ik- 
Serving  of  them  all.  IJesides,  he  argues,  ilk' 
house  is  full  of  guests,  to  whom  she  owes  muiv 
attention  than  ■  eimsonant  with  absenting  herscll 
from  their  company  at  all  hours  of  the  day. 
When  they  meet  at  luncheon,  consecpiently,  k 
is  what  is  termed  a  Utile  "put  out;"  but  ti  1  hj  ii  | 
too  full  of  her  ^ro<('yt'('  to  notice  it. 

"I'oor  Myra!  "she  sighs,  as   she  takes  hi; 
scat  at  the  table.     "1  am  afraid  there   is  littk  I 
hope  for  her;  she  is  so  weak,  she  cannot  speak 
above  a  whisper." 

"  She  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  to  speak  at  all,  I 
after  having  broken  a  blood-vessel,"  says  her  bus- 1 
band,  shortly.     "AVill  you  take  a  cutlet,  Irene?" 

"No — nothing,  thank  you.      I  couMu't  eat;| 
my  whole  mind  is  absorbed  by  the  thought  of  tlia: 
poor  girl." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  allow  it  to  spoii  I 


WORKS  OK  ClIAUirV. 


73 


)|ilo,  from  nlmt. 
in  BOiuu  iii}^t(. 
t  tlic  luundioVi 
ijiia  Iicno,  111-  i: 
t  ruu  Uowu"  ti) 
ok  ur  11  |iuddiii|: 

illlljOl't. 

ling  out  in  thi- 
hot  niotiiliit.'  ill 
lived  for  wullviiig, 
iind  a  bottlu  of 
jt  allow  it,  Iiiiv, 
of  lilt!  r^oit:  vi.. 

I.'  sajB,  coaxiii^-'Ij, 
iich  wor.^e.  f>ii. 
,  iind   llicy  liavi 

going  down?" 
;  Nlie  w ill  fill  niy 
laa  tuki'n  a  gnut 
s,  I  want  to  cairv 

[  cannot  liave  you 
ing   such  fatigiit 

want  to  s<  ('  Myra 


lazy  proonis  li! 
I  i-hall  be  by  lai 
ira,  f'lic  takes  l;ir 

lie   likes  Ills 

i.shionor^,  but  lar 

to  the  Ciays- 

be  the  least  tk- 

he  argues,  ilio 

D  she  owes  luoit 

absenting  herstll 

urs   of   the  day. 

consequently,  he 

out ; "  but  she  u  I 

it. 

8  she  takes  licr 
lid  thci  0  is  littk 
die  cannot  speak  ] 

to  speak  at  all, 
el,"  says  her  bus- 1 
a  cutlet,  Irene! 
I  couldn't  eat;  I 
thought  of  tlia; 

allow  it  to  sjuiu 


V(;'ir  hini'lii'iin,  aio  yoiif  llunniiij;  ulioul  nil  the 
iiioriiiii^:,  aud  etting  nothing  on  llcj  top  of  It, 
Tlio  end  of  it  will  In',  \oil  will  be  ill  " 

"  Not  while  Iheie  U  W'Jili  for  nie  to  do— an 
there  ever  in." 

"  NoiHi'iiHo!  you  tulk  of  it  iii  though  it  .vore 
tt  dutv.  It  'I*  ^  nuiidi  greater  duty  for  you  to  eat 
whi'U  your  huHliitnd  aski4  you  to  do  so." 

"  Don't  ask  uie  then,  dear  I'liillp  ;  for  I  really 

C.lll'l." 

IF'-  docs  not  pri'SS  Ik  r,  but  diroetH  liis  atten^ 
lion  to  tlie  re.Ht  of  the  eoiiipaiiy  ;  while  ;io  leans 
liii'k  ill  her  ehiiir,  [lale,  |ieiisive,  an  1  almost  en- 
tirely hilent. 

''You  won't  go  out  again?"  he  says  to  her, 
Hi  the  nieal  is  coneludcd  mid  they  rise  from 
tuble, 

"Oh,  no!    I  don't  think  so." 

"(Jo,  then,  and  lie  do«n,  my  du.ir.  You  have 
hi'i'ii  too  mueh  exeited.  I  never  aiw  you  more 
overcome." 

'•I  think  I  will  lie  down,  jii.^t  for  im  hour  or 
two.    My  head  I'.ehes  terribly." 

Then  his  tiillinjr  annoyance  vaiii^lies,  and  he 
i.i  all  >ynipathy  and  tenderness,  supporting  her 
up-stairs  with  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and 
coaxing  and  pelting  her  like  a  sick  child,  until 
•4|i('  li;is  exelianged  her  dre.s8  for  a  cool  wrapper, 
luiil  Klin  down  on  her  bod:  when  he  steps  about 
tliu  room,  on  tiptoe,  like  a  woman,  pulling  down 
tlio  blinds  and  putting  every  thing  within  her 
rcaeli  that  ho  thinks  she  may  lequirc. 

"  I  shall  be  back  by  six,  my  own  darling,"  he 
whispers,  in  farewell ;  "  and  I  hope  you  will  have 
had  a  good  sleep  by  that  time." 

'•  I  dare  .say  I  shall,"  she  murmurs,  dreamily ; 
aad  then  ho  leaves  her.  At  the  apiiointed  hour 
he  is  back  again,  and  enterin;.;  thn  room  cau- 
tiously, for  fear  of  startling  her,  finds  all  the 
blinds  drawn  up,  and  Phoobo  sitting  by  the  open 
window,  stitching  a  rent  in  one  of  her  mistress's 
dresses. 

■'Mrs.  Mordaunt  gone  down?"  he  says,  inter- 
rogatively. 

"  Yes,  .sir.     I  believe  she's  gone  out,  sir.'' 

"  Out  1    Not  out-of-doors  again  ?  " 

"I  think  so,  sir.  A  mc.-suge  came  up  fro. a 
Cray's  for  my  missus,  about  four  o'clock,  and  she 
|)ut  on  her  things  at  once  and  went  to  them.  I 
believe  the  young  woman's  sent  for  her,  sir." 

"  Too  bad  I  too  bad  1 "  exclaims  Colonel  Mor- 
ilamir,  angrily  —  though  referring  more  to  the 
Crays  than  to  Irene.  "But  I  suppose  she  will  be 
back  to  dinner." 

"I  supp'-j  so,  sir.      My  missus  said  she 


Would  \vi  ar  u  wiilte  ni'isliu  thl;i  i  veiling,  and  I 
WAitJuht  stitching  Ibis  one  together  for  her." 

Jliil  inner  time  arrives,  and  tlu'v  iire  all  a*. 
:<enibled  in  the  dinlng-ro<  in,  and  still  the  misU'csi 
uf  the  house  is  absent. 

"Ills  close  upon  .-'vven ;  -ihe  mu^t  be  here 
directly,"  remarks  (oloui.l  .Mordaunf,  though  un- 
easily. 

".V  note  fiom  Cray'-*,  if  you  (ileaso,  --ir,"  iiny« 
the  footinan,  placing  lie  erMinphil  pieie  (d' paper 
before  him. 

lie  opens  it  and  reads : 

"  Pk.vk  I'ltiMP:  I'ray  don't  wail  dinner  for  nio. 
It  is  inipossil>le  that  I  can  come  home  just  yet. 
"  Yotirn,  IttKSK." 

".Serve  tho  dinner  at  onee!"  ("icluims  Colo, 
nel  Mordafmt,  in  n  voiio  of  real  displeasure,  as 
he  tears  up  the  note  into  a  do/.en  fragments  and 
casts  tliem  into  the  empty  grate  behoi  1  him. 


CHAPTEU   Vir. 

Mi:as\viiii-k  Irene,  unconscious  how  her  work 
of  charity  will  influence  her  future,  is  sitting 
with  a  trembling  heart  by  the  bedside  of  the  laun- 
dress's niece.  She  is  unused  to  sickness  or  to 
death,  but  she  knows  now  that  the  one  can  only 
vanish  hence  before  the  presence  of  the  other ; 
for  tho  parish  doctor  met  iier,  on  her  entrance  to 
tho  cottage,  and  answen  1  her  ipiestions  about 
Myra  with  the  utmost  frankness. 

"She  Hirt// linger,"  he  said,  Njulitfuliy,  "but  it 
is  more  likely  that  she  will  nut.  She  has  been 
breaking  up  for  some  time  past,  and  has  not  suf- 
ficient strength  to  rally  from  this  last  alluek.  I 
shall  be  here  again  in  the  morning;  but,  as  I  can 
do  her  no  good,  it  would  be  useless  my  8ta_\  lug 
now."  Aiul  tho  doctor  mounted  his  .--tout  eob 
and  trotted  off  in  another  direction. 

Irene  stood  watching  him  till  he  was  out  of 
sight,  and  then  turned  into  the  cottage  with  a  sigh. 
When  the  doctor  leaves  the  house  in  which  a  jia- 
tient  lies  irt  extremis,  it  seems  as  if  death  had  al- 
ready entered  there. 

There  is  no  cessation  of  business  in  Mrs.  Cray's 
dwelling,  though  her  niece  doe-  lie  dying.  Peo- 
])le  who  work  hard  for  stern  daily  bread  canni.t 
alTord  time  for  sentiment ;  and  the  back-kitchen 
is  full  of  steam  and  soap-suds,  and  the  washer- 
women are  clanking  backward  and  forward  over 
the  wet  stones  in  their  pattens,  to  wring  and  hang 
out  the  linen ;  and  tho  clatter  of  tongues  and  rat- 


■ij.  ■ 


ri?l 


19 


"NO  INTENTIONS" 


ii- 


Nk' 


tlintf  of  tiibi*  and  tiolxe  of  the  children  nrc  no  coM' 
tiiitioiiH  ihiit  Irene  liii'4  ditlliule)'  ill  flint  in  iiiiiiiiii;; 
lici'Hcll' li<':inl.  Hut  lli(>  ciiild  will)  tooli  tilt*  iiii'-i- 
■itKO  up  to  tia*  Court  linit  bcon  on  the  loul<out  fur 
licr,  mill  HiKtu  lifliipM  MrH.  t'niy  into  tlic  frDiit  kili'ii- 
cii,  full  of  ii|io|ii^ii'i4  for  liavin}{  l<i'|)t  licr  wiiitiii;;. 

"  I'm  Kiiru  lt'<  vuMtly  Koiid  of  you,  muni,  to 
coiiiu  down  a  Hrcund  liliie  to-day  ;  iind  I  li<i|ii.' 
you  don't  tliink  I  niiiko  too  free  In  Ki'iidin^  ii|i 
tiic  f^iil'tt  nu>!*Hii|^o  to  you  ;  hut  xlio  Iiiim  liecn  tliitt 
ri'Mtlc^H  iind  uiii'ii-'y  nince  von  left  lior  tlii.s  morn- 
ing, tlnit  I  li.ivni't  liccn  iildu  to  do  nolhiiiK  with 
licr,  mill  tliu  first  wordn  iihi>  !<iiy,  a»  I  I'ould  un- 
derstnnd,  wii«,  '  Solid  for  the  lady  ! '  " 

"  I'o  ir  Ihiii;;!"  is  Iri'iio'.s  iiii«wir.  "I  mn 
nfraiil  th  '  iloi'lor  tliinlis  very  budly  ol  Iut,  Mr.-i, 
Cray." 

"  Jl.idly  of  lii'i!  Loi',  my  dour  lady,  »ho'« 
iii;irk('  I  for  dcatli  hi'forc  llii'  wocli'i)  over,  as  suri' 
ns  you  (ftiiiid  there.  Why  she's  bin  H-li(;iitliij(  for 
her  briMitli  all  day,  and  (;ot  the  rattle  in  licr  throat 
118  pliiin  ai  ever  I  hear  it." 

"Oil,  hurth !  your  voice  will  reach  her,"  re- 
nionstratps  Irene  ;  for  the  lauiidret<s  is  speaking, 
if  any  (liiii'4,  latlier  louder  than  ii.-iial, 

'•  It  can't  make  much  ditrereiiee  if  it  do,  mum, 
and  it'll  come  upon  licr  all  the  harder  for  not 
knowin;;  it  beforehand.  It's  my  Joel  I  think  of 
most,  for  Ilia  heart's  just  wrop  up  in  his  cousin; 
and  what  he'll  do  when  bIic's  took,  I  can't  think. 
And  I  iiavcn't  had  tlie  courage  to  tell  him  it's  po 
near,  neither.  Hut  you'll  be  wanting  to  go  up  to 
Myra.  She's  ready  for  you,  I'll  bo  bound."  And 
Mrs.  Cray  stauds  on  one  ^ille  to  let  Irene  mount 
the  rickety  narrow  Btaircaso  that  leads  to  the 
second  story,  and  up  wliicli  her  feet  have  passed 
many  limes  during  the  last  few  weeks.  She 
traverses  it  now,  silently  and  solemnly,  as  though 
a  silent  unseen  I'rosonee  trod  every  step  with 
Iier:  it  is  so  strange  to  the  young  to  think  the 
young  lie  dying  1 

Myra  is  laid  on  a  small  bed  close  by  the  open 
lattice  and  in  the  full  light  of  the  setting  sun. 
Her  face  has  lost  the  deathlike  ghastlincBB  it 
ivore  in  the  morning :  it  is  flushed  now,  and  her 
eyes  are  bright  and  staring ;  to  Irene's  inexperi- 
ence she  looks  better;  but  there  is  a  fearful 
anxiety  pictured  on  her  countenance  that  was  not 
there  before. 

"/«  it  true?"  she  says  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
as  her  visitor  appears. 

"  What,  Myra  ?  "  Irene  answers,  to  gain  time ; 
but  she  knows  what  the  girl  must  mean,  fbr  the 
door  of  her  bedroom  at  the  top  of  the  little  stair- 
case  stood  wide  open. 


"What  nnnr  iiald  Jnut  now,  that  I  urn  markcil 
for  dcalh  within  the  week.  \  week  I  oh,  it'i*  ,i 
short  time — it's  a  liorrlbly  ><liiirt  lime!"  Mvi 
nho  begins  to  ery,  weakly,  but  with  short  giiii|j< 
for  lireaih  thiit  me  very  distrcKsliig  to  bchnM 
Irene  I'lirgels  the  dlll'eiencc  of  station  lictwrni 
them:  rhu  forgets  every  thing  excepting  thai 
here  is  a  weak,  iiflTering  spirit  trenililliig  bclon 
the  (ireiit  Incvitidilc!  And  she  docs  just  wliu' 
she  would  have  done  had  Myra  been  a  sister  ul 
her  own — slu'  throws  her  hat  and  mantle  nii  ,i 
ehiilr,  and  goe>  ii|)  to  the  bedside,  and  kiicils 
down  mid  lidn  •  the  poor  ilyii.g  oreuture  in  lur 
iiriiis  and  presses  her  lips  upon  her  lorcheiid, 

"Di'ar  .Myra,  don't  cry— don't  be  frightciii'!, 
nctiicnibcr  Who  Is  waiting  on  tlio  other  side  tn 
w.'leome  you  I  " 

The  sweet  syinpatlietie  tones,  the  pressiiii;— 
above  all  the  kiss,  rouse  Myra  from  tlie  coiiteiu. 
plat  ion  of  herself. 

"  Did—did— i/ou  do  that  ? " 

"  Do  what,  dear  '' — kiss  you  f  ' 

"Yes.  Did  I  l.iriiy  it— or  were  your  lips 
here  y  "  touching  her  Ibrehend. 

"  My  lips  were  there — why  not  f  I  kisscil  yo\i 
that  you  might  know  how  truly  I  sympathi/t 
with  your  present  trouble." 

"  You  mustn't  do  it  again.  Ah  !  you  don't 
press.  You  would  not  do  it  if  you  knew —  My 
(jod  !  my  God  I  ond  I  am  going ! "  and  bore 
Myra  relapses  into  her  former  grief. 

For  a  moment  Irene  \3  silent.  She  Is  as  pure 
a  woman  as  this  Avorld  has  CTcr  seen  ;  but  she  is 
not  ignorant  that  impurity  exists,  and,  like  all 
honorable  and  high-minded  creatures,  is  disposed 
to  deal  leniently  with  the  fallen.  She  has  sus- 
pected more  than  once,  during  licr  intercourse 
with  Myra,  that  the  girl  carries  some  unhappy 
secret  about  with  her,  nnd  can  well  imagine  how, 
in  the  prospect  of  death,  the  burden  may  become 
too  heavy  to  bo  borne  alone.  So  she  consider? 
for  a  little  before  .she  answers,  and  then  she  takes 
the  white,  wasted  hand  in  hers. 

"Myra  !  I  am  sure  you  are  not  happy;,!  iini 
sure  you  have  had  some  great  trouble  in  your  life 
which  you  have  shared  with  no  one ;  and  now 
that  you  are  so  111,  the  weight  of  it  oppresses 
you.  I  don't  want  to  force  your  confidence,  but, 
if  it  would  comfort  you  to  speak  to  a  frieml, 
remember  that  I  am  one.  I  will  hear  your  secret 
(if  you  have  a  secret),  and  I  will  keep  it  (if  you 
wish  me  to  keep  it)  until  my  own  life's  end.  Only, 
do  now  what  will  make  you  happier  and  more 
comfortable." 

"  Oh !  I  can't— 1  can't— I  daren't  " 


DIA:J-BKD  rONKKSMIONrt. 


wore  votir    lip.'' 


"  I  Jiti-f  mty  it  will  Id!  Iiiird  to  till ;  but  Mjru, 
poor  t(ii'l !  >'u»  uru  toon  Koltig  wlioru  nu  ^cciotii 
c*ii  l<u  liM,  uiiil  I  11)11)'  bu  ubio  tu  oiimrji't  you  a 
lidtu  Ijcfui-L-  you  go." 

"If  you  know  nil,  yuu  wuiiliUi't  -pvitk  to  mo. 
Now  look  lit  ine  nnulii." 

"Try  iiif." 

'*  I  (lureii't  rink  it.  You'ru  titiu  ouly  cuiitfort 
lU.it  JM't  I'oiuo  to  nil!  in  tliln  pliico,  und  yi-t— mul 
vit,"  lilii-'  f'^y*,  I>""tii'(?'  '^*  '''"^'  I'll^t'i*  hoisoir  on 
onu  i'll)OW  and  Mtiircji  liiin^rily  Into  Irono'ii  com- 
paii^luiiiitu  fin'c — "  liow  I  wiili  I  (liu'i'il  to  toll  you 
tn.i  V  tl.lM«  !  " 

At  tliU  junctuii',  thoHouiiildf  "  tliw.uliinn"  in 
aiiilililo  fi'iin  below,  iiml  iM\rii(.'ilittlely  followed 
liy  tliL'  risiuj^  of  Tommy's  idi.intiiio  voice  in  (lis- 
(iirilint  cries. 

"Slic's  at  it  Uizxlw  !"  excliiims  Myra,  middinly 
mill  fuToi'ly,  as  ()iu  din  bruuks  on  tlieir  I'ouvi'rsa- 
tion;  tttul  then,  as  lliou;;h  vonsciou.s  of  lii'r  im|io< 
tiiii'V  to  Interfcri',  she  I'all.s  buck  on  lur  pillows 
witli  a  fcoble  wiiil  of  despair.  Irene  Hies  down- 
Bt.iirs  to  the  M!Scue — more  for  the  sake  of  the  sick 
(.'irl  tli:m  the  child — unci  lliuls  Tommy  liowliii}; 
1  )iidly  ill  a  comer  of  the  kitchen,  while  .Mr*.  Cray 
is  just  ri'i)!acinn  a  thick  stick,  wlikli  nhe  keeps  for 
llio  education  of  her  family,  on  the  ehiinncy-piece. 

"  Has  Tommy  been  nauj^hty  V  "  demamls  Irene, 
ilefiTi'iitially — for  it  is  not  always  safe  to  interfeio 
iviili  Mrs.  Cray's  discipline, 

"  Lor !  yes,  mum,  ho  always  be.  The  most 
ti'iiublosome  ehild  as  ever  was — up  evi'rywhercs 
mill  over  every  think,  <lircetly  my  back's  turned. 
.Vnd  here  he's  bin  upsetting  the  dripping  ull  over 
tlio  place,  and  taking  my  clean  apron  to  v.ipo  up 
liis  rauck,  I'm  sure  liundreils  would  never  pay 
lilt!  for  the  mischief  that  boy  docs  in  ns  many 
days.    And  he  not  three  till  Januiverry !  " 

"  Let  me  have  him,  I'll  keep  him  quiet  for 
you,  up-3tair8,"  says  Irene ;  and  carries  off  the 
whimpering  Tommy  before  the  laundress  has  time 
to  remonstrate. 

"  He's  not  much  the  worse,  Myra,"  she  says, 
dieerfully,  as  sho  resumes  her  scat  by  the  bed- 
side with  the  child  upon  her  knee.  "  I  dare  say 
he  does  try  your  aunt's  temper ;  but  give  him 
one  of  your  grapes,  and  he'll  forget  all  about 
it." 

But,  instead  of  doing  as  Irene  proposes,  Myra 
starts  up  suddenly,  and,  seizing  the  boy  iu  her 
arm?,  strains  bim  closely  to  her  heart,  and  rocks 
backward  and  forward,  crying  over  him. 

"  Oh,  my  darling !  my  darling — my  poor  dar- 
ling !  how  I  wish  I  could  take  you  with  ms ! " 

Tommy,  frightened  at  Myra's  distress,  joins 


ills  tears  with  hers;  nlillc  Irene  ^ils  by,  mH.  nil; 
untouUhud.  Hut  a  light  hit  biokeii  iiiupon  her 
— .die  understands  it  all  iwiw. 

"  Myra!"  idio  nays,  after  a  hIiiIc,  "  ."o  this  1.4 
the  Meeret  that  you  would  not  tell  iiie  y    My  poor 

({Irl,  there  Is  no  need  fur  you  to  I'pe.ik." 

"  1  eouldii't  help  it ',  "  burets  forth  from  .Myra. 
"  Xo— not  If  you  never  looked  at  nie  iiguin.     I've 

borne  it  In  Hilenei;  for  yeai'i),  but  it's  Ik  en  like  ii 
knife  winking  in  my  luMrt  the  while.  And  he'ii 
got  no  one  but  me  in  the  wide  wiuld — and  now  I 
must  leave  him — I  mu-t  le.ive  him.  Oh!  my 
heart  will  break  !  " 

The  chilli  has  Mtriigglud  out  of  his  mother'* 
embrace  ag.iin  by  this  time  (children,  as  a  rule, 
do  not  take  kindly  to  the  exhiliitlon  of  any  violent 
emotion),  ond  stands,  with  his  curly  head  low- 
ered, as  though  fw  were  the  offending  party,  while 
his  dirty  little  knuckles  are  crammed  into  his  wet 
eyes. 

Irene  takes  a  biinih  of  grapes  from  her  own 
offering  of  the  morning,  and  ludds  them  toward 
him. 

"  Tommy,  go  ami  eat  the.'ie  in  the  corner,"  sho 
says,  with  a  Hiiiile. 

The  tear-stained  face  is  rai-icd  to  lier< — the 
blue  eyes  sjiarkle,  the  chubby  lingers  are  outr 
stretched.  Tommy  is  himself  again,  and  Irene's 
attention  is  once  more  directed  to  his  mother. 

"  Dear  Myra ! "  i-he  says,  consolingly. 

"  Don't  touch  me  !  "  cries  the  other,  shrinking 
from  her.  "  Don't  speak  to  me — I  ain't  lit  you 
should  do  either!  IJut  I  couldn't  have  deceived 
you  if  it  hadn't  been  for  aunt.  You're  so  good,  I 
didn't  like  that  you  should  show  inc  kindness  un- 
der false  pretenses ;  but  when  I  spoke  of  telling 
you,  and  letting  you  go  your  own  way,  aunt  was 
so  violent — she  said,  tlio  child  should  suffer  for 
every  word  I  said.  And  so,  for  his  sake,  I've  let 
it  go  on  till  now.     Hut  'tw  ill  soon  bo  over." 

Irene  is  silent,  and  Myra  takes  her  silence  for 
displeasure. 

"  Don't  think  liar.-ihly  of  me  ! "  she  continues, 
in  a  low  tone  of  deprecation.  "  I  know  I'm  un- 
worthy ;  but  if  you  could  tell  what  your  kindness 
has  been  to  me — like  cold  water  to  a  thirsty  soul 
— you  wouldn't  blame  me  so  much,  perhaps,  for 
the  dread  of  losing  it.  And  aunt  frightened  me. 
She's  beat  that  poor  child  " — with  a  gasping  sob 
— "  till  he's  been  black  and  blue ;  and  I  knew, 
when  I  was  gone  he'd  have  no  one  but  her  to  look 
to,  and  she'll  beat  him  then — I  know  she  will — 
when  his  poor  mother's  cold,  and  can't  befriend 
him.  But  if  she  decs ! "  cries  Myra,  with  fierce 
energy,  as  she  clutches  Irene  by  the  arm  am) 


ill 


I! 


.'* 


78 


iiiimiu  m"  M  fjii  imu4ii«ii.wii^.v,iiMi;i|vwmvo<'    iwH'    "«' 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


i:i  I' 


:i.<r;i; 


looks  Btraij,'lit  tliroiio'li  '.ur— "  if  she  docs,  I'll 
come  b;iek,ns  then.''!*  a  tiod  in  heaven,  and  bring 
it  home  to  her  !  " 

"Slie  never  can  ill-treat  liitii  whiii  you  me 
gone,  Myra  1 " 

"Slio  will — she  will!  She  has  a  hard  heart, 
aunt  kn?,  and  a  hard  hand,  and  she  hates  the 
child — she  alway.s  has.  And  he'll  be  tluown  on 
lier  for  bed  and  board,  and,  if  she  can,  she'll  /.(// 
him!" 

The  thought  i.s  too  tcnible  for  contemplation. 
Myra  \a  roused  from  the  partial  stupor  that  .suc- 
ceeds her  violence  by  the  feel  of  Irene's  soft  lips 
again  upon  her  forehead. 

"  You  did  it  again  !  "  she  exclaims,  with  sim- 
ple wonder.  "You  know  all — and  yet,  you  did 
it  again.  Oh!  God  bless  you! — (Jod  bless  you  1" 
and  falls  herself  to  kissing  and  weeping  over 
Irene's  hand. 

"  If  you  mean  that  I  know  this  child  belongs 
to  you,  51yra,  you  are  right:  I  suspected  it  long 
ago ;  but  further  than  this  I  know  nothing.  My 
poor  girl,  if  you  can  bring  yourself  to  confide  in 
me,  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  befriend  this  Utile 
one  when  you  arc  gone." 

"  Would  you— really  ?  " 

"  To  the  utmost  of  my  power." 

"Then  I  will  tell  you  every  thing — every 
thing!    But  let  me  drink  first." 

Irene  holds  a  glass  of  water  to  her  lips,  which 
she  drains  feverishly.  A  clumping  foot  comes  up 
the  staircase,  and  Jenny's  disheveled  head  is 
thrust  sheepishly  into  the  door-way. 

"  Mother  says  it's  hard  upon  seven,  and  Tom- 
my must  go  to  bed." 

"  Nearly  seven  !  "  cries  Irene,  consulting  her 
watch.  "  So  it  is ;  and  we  dine  at  seven.  I  had 
no  idea  it  was  so  late  !  " 

"  Oh  !  don't  leave  me  ! "  whispers  Myra,  turn- 
ing imploring  eyes  upon  her  face. 

Irene  stands  irresolute ;  she  fears  that  Colonel 
Mordaunt  will  bo  vexed  at  her  absence  from  the 
dinner-table,  but  she  cannot  permit  any  thing  to 
come  between  her  and  a  dying  fellow-crc.:tare's 
peace  of  mind.  So  in  anothc'  moment  she  has 
scribbled  a  few  lines  on  a  leaf  torn  from  her 
pocket-book,  and  dispatched  them  to  the  Court. 
Tommy  is  removed  by  main  force  to  his  own 
apartment,  and  Myra  and  she  are  comparatively 
alone. 

"  No  one  can  hear  us  now,"  says  Irene,  as  she 
closes  the  door  and  supports  the  dying  woman  on 
her  breast. 

"  It's  three  years  ago  last  Christmas,"  com- 
mences Myra,  feebly,  "  that  I  took  a  situation  at 


Oxford.  Uncle  was  alive  then,  and  he  thought  a 
deal  of  me,  and  took  ever  so  nniih  trouble  to  g(.i 
me  the  situation.  !  was  at  an  hotel — I  wasn't  bar- 
maid: I  used  io  keej)  the  books  and  an  acoouiit 
of  all  the  wine  that  was  given  out ;  but  I  was 
often  in  and  out  of  the  bar ;  and  I  saw  a  goiol 
many  young  gentlemen  that  way — mostly  fiom 
the  colleges,  or  their  friends." 

Here  she  pauses,  and  faintly  flushes. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me,"  comes  the  gen- 
tle voice  above  her ;  "  I  have  not  been  tempttj 
in  the  same  way,  Myra  ;  if  I  had,  perhaiis  I  should 
have  fallen  too  ! " 

"  It  wasn't  quite  so  bad  as  that,"  interpose 
the  sick  girl  eagerly,  "  at  least  I  didn't  think  so, 
It's  no  use  my  telling  you  what  he  was  like,  nor 
how  we  came  to  know  each  other ;  but  after  a 
while  ho  began  to  speak  to  me  and  hang  about 
me,  and  then  I  knew  that  he  was  all  the  world  to 
me — that  I  didn't  care  for  any  thing  in  it  nor  out 
of  it,  except  he  was  th.  e.  Vuu  know,  don't  you, 
what  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  1  know  !  " 

"  lie  was  handsome  and  clever,  and  had  plenty 
of  money ;  but  it  would  have  been  all  the  same 
to  me  if  he  had  been  poor,  and  mean,  and  ugly. 
I  loved  him!  0  God,  how  I  loved  him!  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  that,  worlds  wouldn't  have  made 
me  do  as  I  did  do.  For  I  thought  move  of  liiui 
all  through  than  I  did  of  being  made  a  lady." 

"  But  he  could  not  have  made  you  that,  even 
in  name,  without  marrying  you,  Myra^" 

"  But  he  did — at  least — oh  !  it's  a  bitter  story, 
from  beginning  to  end ;  why  did  I  ever  try  to 
repent  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  bitter,  but  it  is  very  common, 
Myra.  I  am  feeling  for  you  with  every  word 
you  utter." 

■'  He  persuaded  me  to  leave  the  hotel  with 
him.  I  thought  at  the  time  that  he  meant  to  act 
fairly  by  me,  but  I've  come  to  believe  that  he  de- 
ceived me  from  tl  ^  very  fir?t.  Yet  he  did  love 
me ;  oh,  I  am  sure  he  loved  me  almost  as  much 
as  I  !ov"d  him,  u..iil  he  wearied  of  me,  and  told 
loo  so." 

"  You  found  it  oat  you  mean,  lie  could  not 
be  so  Ciuel  as  to  till  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  did.  Do  you  think  I  would  have 
left  hira  else?  He  told  me  that  he  should  fro 
abroad  and  leave  nic;  that  he  was  bitterly 
ashamed  of  himself ;  that  it  would  be  better  if 
we  were  both  dead,  and  that  if  he  could,  he  wou'd 
wipe  out  the  remembrance  of  me  with  his  blood, 
All  that,  and  a  great  deal  more ;  and  I  have  never 
forgotten  it,  and  I  never  shall  forget  it.     I  believe 


LITTLE  TOMMY. 


19 


1(1  he  lliought  a 
1  trouble  to  frii 
1 — I  wasn't  bar- 
anil  an  aci'cniiit 
lut;  l)ut  I  was 
J  I  paw  a  goiy.i 
J- — mostly  IVoiii 

!usllc^^. 

comes  the  (.'cn- 
t  been  teiuptid 
u'lliajis  I  slioiilil 

hat,"  intciposcs 
:li(lirt  think  so, 
le  was  like,  nor 
er ;  but  after  n 
md  hang  about 
all  the  world  tu 
iiig  in  it  nor  out 
inow,  doii't  you, 


,  and  had  plenty 
en  all  the  same 
mean,  and  ugly, 
ved  hhu!  If  it 
dn't  have  made 
it  move  of  him 
ade  a  lady." 

you  that,  even 
[lyra," 

s  a  bitter  story, 
d  I  ever  try  to 

very  commoD, 
ith   every  word 

the  hotel  witli 
he  meant  to  act 
ieve  that  lie  do- 
et  ho  did  love 
almost  as  mucli 
(f  mo,  and  told 

lie  could  not 

k  I  would  have 
he  should  go 

:  was  bitterly 
Id  be  better  if 
cotdd,  he  wou'J 
with  his  blood, 
nd  I  have  never 
let  it.    I  believe 


his  words  will  haunt  me  wherever  I  may  go — 
even  into  the  other  world  ! " 

Siie  has  become  so  excited,  and  her  excite- 
ment 13  followed  by  so  much  exhaustion,  that 
Irene  is  alarmed,  and  beg.9  her  to  delay  telling 
the  remainder  of  her  story  until  she  shall  be  more 
composed. 

"  No !  no  !  I  must  finish  it  now  ;  I  shall  never 

1)L>  quiet  until  I  have  told  you  all.     When  he  said 

tint  my  blood  got  up,  and  I  left  him.     My  cousin 

Joel  had  been  hanging  about  the  jdace  after  mo, 

I  and  I  left  straiglit  olf  and  came  back  home  with 

liim." 

"  Withoiit  saying  a  word  to — to — the  person 
vou  have  been  speaking  of  ?  " 

"  lie  wanted  to  get  rid  of  mo ;  why  should  I 

!  sav  a  word  to  him?     But  I  grieved  afterward — 

I  ■'rioved  terribly  ;  and  when  the  child  was  born, 

I  would  have  given  the  world  to  find  him  again." 

"  Did  you  ever  try  ? " 

"  7Vy  /    I've  traveled  miles   and  miles,  and 

I  walked  myself  off  my  feet  to  find  him.     I've  been 

1  to  Oxford  and  Fretterley  (that  was  the  village  we 

I  lived  at),  and  all  over  London,  and  I  can  hear 

nothing.    I've  taken  situations   in  both    those 

tonn<,  and  used  his  name  right  and  loft,  and  got 

110  news  of  him.     There  are  plenty  that  bear  the 

same  name,  I  don't  doubt,  but  I've  never  come 

upon  any  trace  of  him  under  it;  and  I've  good 

I  n-a^on  to  believe   that   it   was    not    his    right 

ono." 

"  What  is  the  name  you  know  him  by,  tlien, 
Myra?" 

"  Hamilton." 

"  Hamilton  ! "  repeats  Irene.  "  That  is  not  a 
( common  name  1 " 

"But  it's  net  his.  I've  found  that  out  since, 
[  lor  I  know  he  belonged  to  the  college,  and  there 
wasn't  a  gentleman  with  that  name  there  all 
through  the  term.  His  love  was  false,  and  his 
name  was  false,  and  every  thing  that  took  place 
between  us  was  false.  lie  deceived  me  from  first 
to  last,  and  I'm  dying  before  I  can  bring  him  to 
I  book  for  it !  " 

"You   shouldn't  think   of  'hat  now,  Myra. 
I  You  should  try  to  forgive  him,  as  you  hope  that 
your  own  sins  will  be  forgiven." 

"  I  eould  have  forgiven  him  if  it  hadn't  been 
I  for  Tommy.  But  to  think  of  that  poor  child  left 
worse  than  alone  in  this  wretched  world — his 
mother  dead  and  his  father  not  owning  him — is 
enough  to  turn  me  bitter,  if  I  hadn't  been  so  be- 
fore. Aunt  will  ill-use  him  ;  she's  barely  decent 
to  him  now,  when  I  pay  for  his  keep,  and  what 
she'll  do  when  he's  thrown  upon  her  for  every 


:  thing,  I  daren't  think — and  I  shall  never  lie  quiet 
!  in  my  grave  !  " 

'         "Myra,  don't   let  that  thought  distress  you. 
!  I  will  look  after  Toiiimy  whrn  you  are  gone." 

"  I  know  you're  very  good.  You'll  be  down 
here  every  now  niul  then  with  a  plaything  or  a 
copper  for  him — liut  that  won't  prevent  her  beat- 
ing him  betwecn-whlles.  He's  a  high-spirited 
child,  but  she's  nearly  taken  his  siiirit  out  of  him 
already,  and  he's  dreadfully  frightened  of  her, 
poor  lamb !  He'll  cry  himself  to  sleep  every 
night  when  I'm  in  the  church-yard !  "  and  the 
tears  steal  meekly  from  beneath  Myra's  half. 
closed  eyelids,  and  roll  slowly  down  her  hollow 
cheeks. 

"  He  shall  not,  Myra,"  says  Irene  energeti- 
cally. "Give  the  child  into  my  charge,  and  I'll 
take  him  away  from  the  cottage,  and  sec  that  he 
is  prnporly  provided  for." 

"  i'ou  will  take  him  up  to  the  Court  and  keep 
him  like  your  own  child?  He  is  the  son  of  a 
gentleman!"  says  poor  Myra,  with  a  faint  spark 
of  pride.  Irene  liesitates.  Has  she  been  promis- 
ing more  than  she  will  be  able  to  perform  ?  Yet 
she  knows  Colonel  Mordaunt's  easy  nature,  and 
can  almost  answer  for  his  compliance  witli  any 
of  her  wishes. 

"Oh,  if  you  could!"  exclaims  the  dying 
mother,  with  clasped  hand?!.  "If  I  thought  that 
my  poor  darling  would  live  with  you,  I  could  die 
this  moment  and  be  thankful ! " 

"  He  (./(((Wlivc  with  me,  or  under  my  care," 
cries  Irene.     "  I prondac  yon.'''' 

"  Will  you  swear  it  ?  Oh  !  forgive  m  j  !  I  am 
dying." 

"  I  swear  it" 

"  Oh  !  thank  God,  who  put  it  in  your  heart  to 
say  so  !    Thank  God  1     Thank  God ! " 

She  lies  back  on  her  pillows,  exhausted  by  her 
own  emotion,  while  her  hands  arc  feebly  clasped 
above  those  of  her  benefactress,  and  her  pale  lijis 
keep  murmuring  at  intervals,  "  Thank  God  !  " 

"If  you  please,  mum,  the  colonel's  sent  the 
pony-chaise  to  fetch  you  home,  and  he  hopes  as 
you'll  go  immediate." 

"  The  carriage  !  "  says  Irene,  starting,  "  then 
I  must  go." 

"  Oh  !  I  had  romething  more  to  tell  you,"  ex- 
claims Myra;  "  I  was  only  waiting  for  the 
strength.     You  ought  to  know  all ;  I — I — " 

"I  cannot  wait  to  hear  it  noT,  u'ea-  Myra.  I 
am  afraid  my  husband  will  be  angry  ;  but  I  will 
come  again  to-morrow  morning." 

"  To-morrow  morning  I  may  not  be  here  !  " 

"  No !  no !— don't    think  it.     We  shall  meet 


m 


■4 


w 


r 


'mmnmvf^n^mmmm^^mm^mihimn 


mm 


80 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


f      ':!.5'.:-i 


again.  Muanwhile,  bo  comforted,  Rumcmber, 
I  have  ])ro)n!s(d  ;"  iiiul  with  a  farewell  proasure 
of  the  sick  K''"''^  hand,  Irene  resiunes  her  walking- 
thin<;s,  and  driven  iiaek  to  tiie  Court  as  quickly 
aa  her  ponies  will  carry  her.  Her  husband  is 
waitinj;  to  receive  her  on  the  door-step. 

Colonel  llordaunt  is  not  in  tlie  best  of  tempers, 
at  least/or /(i'/rt.  The  Httlo  episode  which  took 
place  between  Irene  and  himself  relative  to  her 
predilection  for  Mrs.  Cray's  nurse-chiid,  has  made 
him  rather  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  every  thing 
connected  with  the  laundress's  cottage,  and  ho  is 
vexed  to-night  tlu^f.  ^he  s'iould  have  neglected  her 
guests  and  her  dinner-table,  to  attend  tho  death- 
bed of  what,  in  his  vexation,  he  calls  a  "  consump- 
tive pauper." 

And  so,  when  he  puts  out  his  hand  to  help 
Ilia  wife  down  from  her  pony-chaise,  he  is  most 
decidedly  in  that  condition  domestically  known 
as  "  grumpy." 

"  Take  them  round  to  tho  stable  at  once,"  he 
says  sharply,  looking  at  the  ponies  and  address- 
ing the  groom;  "why,  they've  scarcely  a  hair 
unturned  ;  they  must  have  been  driven  home  at  a 
most  unusual  rate." 

"  You  sent  word  you  wanted  me  at  once,  so  I 
thought  it  was  for  something  particular,"  inter- 
poses Irene,  standing  beside  him  in  the  porch. 

"  Do  you  hi-.ir  what  I  say  to  you  ?  "  he  re- 
peats to  the  servant,  and  not  noticing  her. 
"  What  are  you  .<;tanding  dawdling  there  !"jr?  " 

The  groom  touches  his  hat  and  drives  av    y. 

"  What  is  tho  matter,  Philip  ?  " 

"There's  nothing  the  matter,  that  I  know 
of." 

"  Why  did  you  send  the  pony-chaise  for  me, 
then?  Why  didn't  you  come  and  fetch  me 
yourself?  I  would  much  rather  have  walked 
home  through  the  fields  with  you." 

"  We  cannot  both  neglect  our  guests,  Irene. 
If  you  desert  them,  it  becomes  my  duty  to  try 
and  supply  your  place." 

"  Why  I  Aunt  Cavendish  is  not  affronted,  is 
she  ?  She  must  know  th'it  it's  only  once  in  a 
way.     Did  you  get  ray  note,  Philip  V  " 

"  I  received  a  dirty  piece  of  paper  with  a 
notice  that  you  would  not  be  back  to  dinner." 

"I  thought  it  would  be  sufficient,"  says  Irene, 
sighing  softly  ;  "  and  I  really  couldn't  leave  poor 
Jlyra,  Philip.  She  is  dying  as  fast  as  it  is  possi- 
ble, and  she  had  something  very  jjartieular  to  tell 
me.     You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  Angry !  oh,  dear  no !  why  should  I  be  an- 
gry ?     Only,  I  think  it  would  bo  advisable,  an- 


other time,  If  these  paupers'  confidences  were  got 
over  in  the  morriing.  And  I  certainly  do  not  ap. 
prove  of  your  being  at  the  beck  and  call  of  evtrv 
sick  person  in  the  village,  whether  you  are  fit  to 
attend  to  him  or  not !  You  had  a  bad  headaihc 
yourself  when  I  left  you  this  afternoon." 

"(»h,  my  poor  head!  I  had  forgotten  all 
about  it.  Yes  ;  it  was  very  painful  at  one  tiiuo, 
but  I  suppose  my  excitement  has  driven  the  imin 
away.  I'hilip,  I  have  been  listening  to  such  a 
sad  story.  You  know  the  child — the  little  boy 
that  they  said  was  at  nurse  with  Mrs.  Cray." 

"I  have  heard  you  mention  it.  I  really  did 
not  know  if  'twas  a  boy  or  a  girl,  or  if  you  knew 
yourself,"  he  replies,  indifferently. 

"  Xo,  no  ;  of  course  not  1  "  she  says,  colorin;:, 
"  but  you  know  what  I  mean.  Well,  what  do 
you  think — it's  a  secret  though,  mind  " — lowcrin;; 
her  voice — "  he  belongs  to  poor  Myra,  after  all; 
isn'*  1.  shocking  ?  " 

"  A.  id  what  is  the  use  of  their  telling  you 
sueli  ta  '^s  as  that  ?  "  replies  Colonel  Mordaunt, 
angrily  ;  '"  I  ■"■'■.."i  have  them  defiling  your  ear: 
with  things  that  are  not  fit  for  you  to  hear.  If 
it  is  the  case,  why  can't  they  keep  the  disgrace 
to  themselves  ?  You  can  do  no  good  by  knowing 
the  truth." 

"  0  Philip  !  but  you  don't  understand ;  it 
was  the  poor  girl  told  me,  and  it  was  such  a 
comfort  to  her — she  has  no  one  else  to  confide 
in.  And,  besides,  she  is  so  unhappy,  because 
Mrs.  Cray  beats  her  poor  little  boy,  and  she  is 
afraid  he  will  be  ill-treated  when  she  is  gone." 

"  And  wants  to  extract  a  promise  from  you  to 
go  down  there  every  morning  and  see  that  her 
precious  offspring  has  slept  and  eaten  well  since 
the  day  before.  No,  thank  you,  Irene  !  I  think 
we've  had  quite  enough  of  this  sort  of  thing  for 
the  present,  and  when  the  laundress's  niece  i< 
dead,  I  hope  that  you  will  confine  your  charity 
more  to  home,  and  not  carry  it  on  ad  infnitum 
to  the  third  and  fourth  generation." 

He  makes  one  step  downward  as  though  to 
leave  her  then,  but  she  plucks  him  timidly  by 
the  sleeve  and  detains  him. 

"  But,  Philip — I  promised  her  !  " 

"  Promised  what  ?  " 

"  That  I  would  befriend  her  child  when  she 
is  gone ;  that  I  would  take  him  away  from  Mrs, 
Cray.  She  was  so  miserable  about  him,  poor 
girl,  she  said  she  couldn't  die  in  peace  ;  and — anil 
(I  do  so  hope  you  won't  be  vexed) — and  bring  him 
up  under  my  own  care." 

"  HVta//"  cries  Colonel  Mordaimt,  roughly, 
startled  out  of  all  politeness. 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 


81 


"I  promised  bui' I  would  adopt  hlin  ;  surely, 
it  !:>  iiothiiig  so  very  much  out  of  tlic  way." 

■'Adopt  a  bi'iigiir's  tiriit  out  of  the  vilhij^e — ;i 
child  not  born  in  wedloek — a  boy,  of  all  tliiii;;s 
in  the  world  !  Irene,  you  must  be  out  of  your 
senses ! " 

'  But  it  is  done  every  day." 

'  It  may  bo  done  oeeasionally  by  people  who 

I  li;ive  an  interest  in  rajtged  seliools,  or  the  Eniijrra- 

I  tiun  Soeiety,  or  the  Slioe-blaek  IJrigade,  or  who 

bivc  arrived  at  the  meridian  of  life  without  any 

ncarei' ties  of  their  own;  but  for  a  young  lady, 

I  just  nii.rried,  and  with  her  hands  full  of  oecupa- 

tiun,  bot'i  for  the  present  and  the  future,  it  would 

I  be  absurd — unheard  of — impossible  !  " 

"  But  what  oeeupation  have  I  that  need  prc- 
I  vent  my  looking  after  a  little  child,  Philip  ?     If — 

lil-"   ' 

••If  what  y" 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  be  so  silly  as 

[not  to  like  to  mention  it,"  she  goes  on  hurriedly, 

I  tiiongli  with  an  ellbrt ;  ''  but  supposing  I — I — had 

a  child  of  my  own  ;  thnt  would  not  interfere  with 

[my  duties  as  mi.stress  here,  would  it?  " 

"And  would  you  like  to  have  a  child  of  your 
|o«n,  darling?"  he  answers  sweetl)-,  but  irrele- 
Ivantly,  and  relapsing  into  all  his  usual  tenderness. 
I  Were  Irene  politic,  she  might  win  him  over  at 
I  tiiij  moment  to  grant  her  anything.  A  smile, 
;in  answering  look,  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  would 
I  Jo  it,  and  bring  him  to  her  feet  a  slave !  But,  in 
lone  sense  of  the  word,  she  is  not  politic  ;  her  ua- 
(tiire  is  too  open.  She  cannot  bring  her  heart  to 
stoop  to  a  deception,  however  plausible,  for  hci" 
lown  advantage.  And  so  she  answers  her  hus- 
|ljand's  qiiestion  frankly. 

"No!  not  at  all,  rhilip.     I've  toM  you  that 
dozen  times  already!  but  I  want  to  take  this 
].oor  little  boy  away  from  Mrs.  Cray,  and  bring 
bim  up  respectably  in  mind  and  body." 

Colonel  Mordaunt's  momentary  softness  van- 
lit?,    and    his   "  grumphicss "   returns    in    full 
fijrcc. 

"  Then  I  object  altogether.  I'm  not  so  fond 
bibrais  at  any  time  as  to  care  to  have  those  of 
pilicT  people  sprawling  ovfrr  py  house — and  a 
pauper's  brat  of  all  things.  VoK  iiiast  dismiss 
|ho  idea  at  once." 

"  But  I  have  promised,  Philip." 
''  You  [itoinised  more  than  you  can  perform." 
'•  But  I  swore  11.     0  Philip !   you  will  not 
hiake  me  go  back  from  an  oath  made  to  the  dy- 
|iiz!    I  shall  bate  myself  forever  if  you  do." 

■'  You  had  no  right  to  take  such  an  oath  with- 
fcut  consulting  me." 

6 


"  Perhaps  not ;  I  acknowledge  it ;  but  it  is 
done,  and  I  cannot  recede  from  my  given  word." 

"  I  refuse  to  inilorse  it.  I  will  have  no  bus- 
tard  brought  up  at  my  expense." 

The  eoarseucss  of  the  retort  provokes  her ; 
she  colors  crimson,  and  recoils  from  him. 

"  How  cruel !  hijw  pitiless  of  you  to  use  that 
term !  You  have  no  charity  !  >^onie  day  you 
m.iy  need  it  for  yourself!" 

At  that  he  turns  upon  her,  eiim.-on  too,  and 
panting. 

"  What  makes  you  say  so  ?  What  have  you 
heard  ?  " 

"  -More  than  I  ever  thought  to  hear  from  your 
lips.  0  Philip,  I  did  not  think  you  could  be  so 
unkind  to  me  !  "  and  she  turns  from  him  weep- 
ing, and  goes  up  to  her  own  room,  leaving  him 
conseience-strickeu  in  the  porch.  It  is  their  first 
quarrel;  the  first  time  angry  wuids  have  ever 
passed  between  them,  and  ho  is  afraid  to  follow 
her,  lest  he  should  meet  with  a  rebufl',  so  he  re- 
mains there,  moody  and  miserable,  and,  before 
half  an  hour  has  elaiised,  could  bite  out  his  tongue 
for  every  word  it  uttered. 

The  idea  of  the  adopted  child  is  as  unpala- 
table to  him  as  ever ;  it  aj)|icars  a  most  hare- 
brained and  absurd  idea  to  him ;  but  he  cannot 
bear  to  think  that  he  should  have  been  cross  with 
Irene,  or  that  .she  should  have  been  betrayed  into 
using  hasty  words  to  him, 

Oh,  that  first  quarrel !  how  infinitely  wretched 
it  makes  humanity,  and  what  a  shock  it  is  to  hear 
hot  and  angry  words  pouring  from  the  lips  that 
have  never  opened  yet  for  us  except  in  bless- 
ing! 

Bettor  thus,  though — better,  hot  and  angry 
words,  than  cold  and  calm. 

Tl\e  direct  death  for  love  to  die  is  «  hen  it  is 
reasoned  into  silence  by  the  voice  of  indilference 
and  good  sense. 

Othello's  passion  was  rough  and  deadly,  but 
while  it  lasted  it  must  have  been  very  sweet  pain, 
was  it  not  kinder  to  smother  Desdemona  while  it 
was  at  white  heat  than  to  let  her  live  to  see  the 
iron  cool  ? 

But  Colonel  Mordaunt  is  in  no  mood  for  rea- 
soning ;  he  is  simply  miserable ;  and  his  mood 
ends — fls  nil  such  moods  do  end  for  true  lovers — 
by  his  creeping  up  to  Irene's  side  in  the  twilight, 
and  humbly  bepging  her  forgiveness,  which  she 
grants  him  readily — n  ving  a  little  over  her  own 
shortcomings  the  while-  and  then  thcv  make  it 
up,  and  kiss,  as  hu.sband  and  wife  should  do,  and 
come  down-stairs  together,  and  are  very  cheerful 
for  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  and  never  once 


ifl 


u 


w 


82 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


1-lirV 


mention   tlio  obnoxious  Fiilijcct   tint   distiiibcd 
tlicir  peace. 

Tlic  next  niorninq  U  bright  aiul  l)e!iutiful ;  nil 
Xaturc  appear.-)  jubil.int,  but  between  tliese  two 
there  is  U  a  .sli;,'iit  reserve.  All  trace  of  discom- 
fiture has  passed — they  are  as  loving  and  atten- 
tive to  c.icli  otlicr  as  before — but  they  are  not 
quite  .so  easy.  With  her  first  awakening.',  Irene's 
tlioughts  have  flown  to  poor  Myra.  She  wonders 
liow  she  has  passed  tlic  night,  and  vividly  rcniem- 
liers  that  she  promised  to  visit  her  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  but  Colonel  Mordaunt  says  notlnng  on  tlie 
subject,  and  Irene  dares  not  broaoli  it.  She  is 
so  afraid  of  disturbing  his  restored  serenity,  or 
of  appearing  ungrateful  for  the  extra  love  he  has 
bestowed  on  her  in  order  to  eifaec  th'j  remem- 
brance of  their  misunderstanding. 

Every  one  knows  what  it  is  to  feel  like  this 
lifter  a  quarrel  with  one  whom,  we  love.  The 
!  torm  was  so  terri!)le,  and  the  succeeding  peace 
is  so  precious  to  us,  we  arc  not  brave  onougli  to 
risk  a  repetition  of  our  trouble  by  alluding  to  the 
sultject  that  provoked  it.  So  Irene  dresses  in 
silence,  thinking  much  of  her  interview  with 
Myra  of  the  day  before,  and  wondering  how  it 
win  all  end,  and  longing  that  her  husband  would 
1)0  tiio  first  to  revert  to  it.  But  they  meet  at 
breakfast ;  and  nothing  has  been  said. 

^Ira.  Cavendish  is  particularly  lively  this 
morning.  Slic  knows  there  was  a  slight  dis- 
agreement between  her  host  and  hostess  last 
evening,  and  she  is  anxious  to  dispel  the  notion 
that  any  one  observed  it  but  themselves. 

"  What  a  beautiful  day ! "  she  says,  as  she 
enters  the  room ;  "  bright,  but  not  too  warm. 
Ah,  Colonel  Mordaunt,  who  was  it  promised  to 
take  us  all  over  to  picnic  at  Walmslcy  Castle  on 
the  first  opportunity  ?  " 

"  One  who  is  quite  ready  to  redeem  his  prom- 
ise, madam,"  replies  the  colonel,  gallantly,  "  if  his 
commander-in-chief  will  give  him  leave.  But  I 
am  only  under  orders,  you  know — only  under 
orders." 

''  Not  very  strict  ones,  I  imagine. — What  do 
you  say,  Irene?  Is  this  not  just  the  day  for 
Walmslcy  ?  And  Mary  and  I  must  leave  you  tlie 
beginning  of  the  week." 

"  Oh !  do  let  us  go,  Irene,"  interposes  her 
cousin. 

"  It  will  be  awful  fun,"  says  Oliver  Ralston. 
"  Just  what  we  were  wishing  for ;  is  it  not.  Miss 
Cavendish?" 

Irene  thinks  of  Myra  in  a  moment ;  it  is  on 
the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  remonstrate,  and  say  she 
cannot  go  to-day  of  all  days  in  the  week^  but  she 


glances  at  her  husband,  and  the  expression  of  liij 
face  makes  her  hesitate. 

"  riiilip,  what  would  you  wish  me  to  do?" 
,shc  says  timidly. 

"  I  want  you  to  please  yourself,  my  dear  ;  but 
I  see  no  reason  why  you  stiould  not  go.  Thu 
weather  is  beautiful,  the  distance  nothing—;, 
matter  of  fourteen  milc.i ;  just  a  pleasant  drivf, 
And  I  am  sure  it  will  do  you  good,  besides  i:iv. 
ing  pleasure  lo  our  guests.  If  you  ask  my  opin. 
ion,  I  say,  let's  go." 

"That's  right,  uncle,"  shouts  Oliver;  "A. 
can  have  notliing  to  say  after  that. — Now,  Irene'' 
(for  it  had  been  settled  between  these  young  pco- 
pl(!  that,  considering  the  equality  of  their  age?, 
they  should  address  each  other  by  their  Christiiiu 
names),  "  let's  make  an  inroad  on  the  lanitr 
(what  a  blessing  it  is  old  Quekett's  not  hereto 
prevent  us  !),  pack  up  the  hamper,  order  round  tin 
carriage,  put  on  our  hats,  and  the  thing  is  done." 

"Shall  we  be  long  away?"  demands  Irciip, 
anxiously,  of  her  husband. 

He  observes  her  indiU'crcnce  to  tlie  proposed 
plan,  guesses  its  cause,  and  frowns. 

"  That    depends   entirely  on   our  own   will 
But  if  our  fr!cnd.f"  (with  a  slight  stress  on  the  I 
word)  "  enjoy  themselves  at  the  castle,  I  sec  no 
reason  why  we  should  not  remain  as  long  as  :: 
gives  them  pleasure." 

"  Dear  Irene,  pray  don't  go  against  your  in- 
clination," urges  Miss  Cavendish.  Colonel  Mor. 
daunt  answers  for  her — with  a  laugh. 

"  Don't  indulge  her.  Miss  Cavendish.  She  is  I 
only  lazy.  She  will  enjoy  herself  as  much  as  any  | 
of  us  when  she  is  once  there. — Come,  my  darlin?, 
see  after  the  commissariat  department  at  once,  I 
and  I  will  order  the  carriage.  The  sooner  we  | 
start  the  better. — Oliver,  will  you  ride,  or  take 
the  box-seat  ?  "  And  so  it  is  all  settled  witlioui  | 
further  intervention  on  her  part. 

She  goes  up-stairs  to  prepare  for  the  expe- 
dition,  feeling  very   undecided   and    miserable. 
After  all,  does  not  her  duty  lie  more  toward  [h 
fulfillment  of  her  husband's  wishes  than  ancngap- 1 
ment  with  one  who  has  no  real  claims  upon  her; 
Only,  she  is  so  sorry  that  she  promised  to  visii  I 
Myra  this  morning.     Perhaps  she  is  expecting  litr  I 
even  at  this  moment — straining  her  cars  to  catch  | 
the  sound  of  her  footstep — waiting  in  feverls!; 
anxiety  to  repose  some  further  confidence  in  her,  I 
The  thought  is  too  painful.     Could  she  not  riis  I 
down  to  the  cottage  before  they  go,  if  it  was  only  J 
for  ten  minutes  ?    She  hears  her  husband  in  hi; 
dressing-room. 

"Philip,"  she  Siys  ii:.:-,i(."l!y,  '■  i  pji.nvscd  to| 


■   V  ^  ■ .  ■■,. ' 


VISIT  TO  WALMSLEY  CASTLK. 


83 


rcssion  of  liia 

me  to  (1(1  ?" 

my  iknr ;  hw 
not  go.  Til, 
0  nothinj:— ;i 
ilcnsnnt  tliivu, 
I,  besides  f;iv. 
ask  my  opin- 

Oliver;  "hIl 
—Now,  Irene'' 
[!Sc  yoimg  poo. 

of  tlicir  iifrcf, 
their  Christian 
on  the  Inrdor 
:'s  not  hereto 
(reler  round  tin 
thine  is  done." 
lemands  Ircue. 

o  the  proposed  | 
i. 

our  own  will.  ] 
it  stress  on  tlie 
;astle,  I  sec  no 
n  as  long  as  i' 

iiinst  your  in- 
Colonel  Moi- 
igh. 

f-ndish.     She  is  | 
as  much  as  anj 
me,  my  darlini;,  I 

niont  at  once, 

The  sooner  w  | 

ride,  or  take 

settled  withom  | 

for  the  expc- 

and    luisevablo.  I 

lore  toward  tlii) 

than  an  cn;-'a?f- 

laims  upon  her':  I 

oniiscd  to  visit  | 

is  cxpcctins  lif 

er  cars  to  cttcb  | 

ing  in  feveris'; 

nfldonce  in  licr.  I 

lid  she  not  rr. 

ro,  if  it  was  only  | 

husband  in  bi; 


1  r>it..fi' 


scd  to 


f .  ,■  poor  Myra  afiain  this  morning'.     Is  there  no 
tluh!  Ix'fore  we  start  V  " 

"  TiiiK? !  "  he  echoes  ;  "  why,  the  carriage  is 
eoiiiii'."  round  now,  and  the  ladies  have  tluii' 
tliiiiirs  on.  You've  gone  mad  on  the  subject  of 
th:it  woman,  Irene;  but,  if  it's  absolutely  iiiipor- 
t  int  vnu  should  see  her  again  to-day,  you  must  go 
down  in  the  evening.  Come,  my  darling,"  he  con- 
tinues, changing  his  manner  to  a  caressing,  eoax- 
iu"  tone,  which  it  i.s  most  dillleuU  to  combat,  "  we 
had  quite  enough  fu.s3  over  this  subject  yester- 
(liiv;  let  us  have  a  peaceful,  happy  day  all  to  our- 
felvcs,  for  once  in  a  way  ;  there's  a  dear  giil." 
And,  after  that,  there  is  nothing  more  for  Irene 
to  do  but  to  walk  down-stair.s  disconsolately,  and 
drive  off  with  her  guests  to  AVahnsle/  Castle. 

They  are  a  merry  party  ;  for  it  is  just  one  of 
thoHC  glorious  days  when  to  live  is  to  enjoy;  and 
flie  tries  to  be  merry,  too,  for  gloom  and  ill-humor 
have  no  part  in  her  composition  :  but  she  cannot 
JKlp  her  thoughts  reverting,  every  now  and  then, 
to  JlyiM,  with  a  tinge  of  self-reproaeh  for  not  hav- 
ing been  braver.  Yet  her  husband  sits  opposite 
to  her,  his  eye  glowing  with  pride  as  it  rests  upon 
her  countenance,  and  a  quiet  pressure  of  the  hand 
or  foot  telling  her  at  intervals  that,  with  whom- 
soever he  may  appear  to  be  occupied,  his  thoughts 
,ire  always  hers  ;  and  she  cinnot  decide  whether 
she  has  done  right  or  wrong.  It  is  useless  to 
ponder  the  question  now,  when  she  is  already 
miles  away  from  Priestley  ;  and  so  she  tries  to  dis- 
miss it  from  her  mind,  with  a  resolution  to  pay 
licr  promised  visit  the  minute  she  returns. 

Wahnsley  Castle  is  a  ruin,  situated  in  a  very 
picturesque  part  of  the  county;  and,  allowing 
[  for  a  long  drive  there  and  a  futigiiing  exploration, 
followed  by  a  lengthy  luncheon  and  a  lazy  discus- 
I  sion  on  the  sward,  it  is  not  surprising  that  morn- 
ing merged  into  noon,  and  noon  into  evening,  be- 
fore our  party  were  aware  of  the  fact,  and  that 
the  first  thing  that  calls  Irene's  attention  to  the 
hour  is  a  cool  breeze  blowing  across  the  hills, 
I  which  makes  her  shiver. 

"  How  cold  it  has  turned ! "  she  says,  suddenly, 
I  as  she  changes  her  position.  "  Why,  I'liilip, 
[what    'clock  is  it?  " 

"  Just  five,  dear,"  ho  answers,  quietly. 
"  Five  !    Five  o'clock  !     It  never  can  be  five." 
"  Within  a  few  minutes.     I  suppose  we  had 
I  better  bo  thinking  of  going  home,  or  we  shall  be 
I  late  for  dinner." 

"  I  hardly  think  we  shall  have  much  appetite 
I  for  dinner  after  this,"  says  Miss  Cavendish,  laugh- 
ling,  as  she  regards  the  scanty  remnants  of  their 
I  meal. 


"  Kii'c  I  It  cannot  be  so  l.iteas  five,"  lepeata 
Irene,  in  a  voice  of  distress.  "0  I'hilip,  (border 
the  horsi'S  to  be  put  to  at  oiiee. — I'oor  Myra  I  " 

Her  expression  is  so  pleailiiig  that  he  rises  to 
do  her  bidding  without  delay  ;  but  he  cannot  re- 
sist a  grumble  as  he  does  it.  I!ut  she  does  not 
heed  him  :  she  heeds  nothing  now  but  her  own 
thoughts,  which  have  flown  back  to  her  broken 
promise,  with  a  dreailful  fear  that  she  may  be  too 
late  to  redoem  it.  She  reiueinliers  every  thing 
that  happened  with  sickening  fidelity  :  how  Myra 
longed  to  detain  her,  and  only  let  her  go  ujion 
her  given  word  that  she  woidd  return.  WInt 
right  had  she  to  break  it — for  any  one,  even  for 
riiilip  ?  What  must  the  dying  woman  think  of 
her? 

She  is  so  absorbed  in  this  idea  that  she  ea  i- 
not  speak  to  any  tmc :  her  conduct  seems  (piito 
dianged  from  what  it  did  in  the  morning.  She  is 
a  pitiful  coward  in  her  own  eyes  now.  And,  as 
she  drives  back  to  riiestley,  she  sits  alone,  miser- 
able and  silent,  longing  to  roach  home,  and  fancy- 
ing the  road  twice  as  long  as  when  they  last  trav- 
ersed it, 

"  Are  you  ill,  my  dear  ?  "  says  Miss  Civeinii.-h. 
"  Has  the  day  fatigued  you?  " 

"  You  had  better  not  speak  to  Irene,"  replies 
Colonel  Mordaunt,  in  her  stead.  '"  She  is  'a  one 
of  her  Lady  Bountiful  moods.  You  and  I  are  not 
worth  attending  to  in  comparison." 

She  is  too  low-spirite('  even  to  be  sauey  in  n;- 
ply :  and  presently  her  husband's  hand  creeps 
into  hers  ;  and  she  knnu  s  that  her  reticence  has 
pleased  him,  and  gives  it  a  good  squeze  for  re- 
ward. 

But  as  the  carriage  drives  up  to  the  Court  her 
quick  eye  catches  sight  of  a  dirty  little  figure 
crouched  by  the  door-steps,  and  all  her  vague  fore- 
bodings return. 

"  Oh,  there  is  Jenny  ! ''  she  exclaims,  excitedly. 
"  I  felt  sure  there  was  something  wrong. — Jenny, 
what  is  it  ?  " — as  the  carriage  reaches  the  door — 
"  is  Myra  worse  ?  " 

"  Please,  mum,"  says  Jenny,  with  a  boo,  "  she's 
as  bad  as  ever  she  can  be :  and  mother  says, 
please,  mum,  could  you  come  down  and  see  her, 
for  she's  a-goin'  fast,  and  she  keeps  on  a-eallin' 
for  you.     And  mother  says — '' 

"  Oh !  I  will  go  at  once,"  says  Irene,  leaping 
down  from  the  carriage.  "  Pliilip,  dearest,  you 
won't  be  angry."  Ami,  with  that,  begins  to  run 
down  the  drive. 

"  Stop,  Irene,  stop  !  "  cries  her  husband  ;  but 

she  does  not   heed   or  hear   him;   and,  having 

1  handed  the  other  ladies  out,  he  drives  after  her, 


i 


1 


li 


i^>'^ 


n 


84 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


i.^^1 


V  i'« 


and  catches  her  before  alio  liaa  reached  the  out- 
f  ido  of  Ihe  t;''ouiKl.-i. 

"  Stop,  dcar'jst !  Get  in.  I  will  drive  down 
with  you,"  he  exclaims,  as  ho  overtakes  her. 

"  You,  IMiilip?" 

"  Yes,  why  not  ?  Am  I  to  have  no  share  in 
the  troubles  of  this  kind  little  heart  ?  " 

"O  rii'lip!  Thank  you!  You  arc  too  good 
to  nie !  It  is  such  a  comfort  to  me !  "  And,  with 
that,  she  seizes  the  great  rough  hand  that  has 
drawn  her  so  tenderly  to  his  side,  and  cries  over 
it  quietly.  He  smears  her  tears  all  over  her  face 
with  his  pocket-handkerchief  in  well-meant  at- 
tempts to  wipe  them  away,  after  the  manner  of 
men,  but  not  another  word  is  exelianged  between 
them  till  they  reach  the  cottage. 

There  all  is  silent.  The  lower  part  of  the 
house  seems  deserted.  And  Irene,  leaving  her 
husband  pacing  the  garden  in  front,  tinds  her 
way  quietly  up-stairs. 

Myra's  room  seems  full.  Mrs.  Cray  is  there 
with  her  .■^oiipy  satellites,  and  all  her  children,  ex- 
cept Joel  and  Jenny ;  and  at  first  Irene's  en- 
traiu'C  is  unnoticed.  But  as  the  women  nearest 
the  door  perceive  her,  they  fall  back. 

"Ah  !  you've  come  too  lute,  mum,''  :-ays  Mrs. 
Cray,  reprouehfully.  "  I  doubt  if  she'll  recko- 
nize  you.     She's  a'most  gone,  ])oor  creetur." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  replies  Irene,  making  her 
Way  up  to  the  bed  on  which  the  siek  girl  lies  mo- 
tionless ;  "  but  I  could  not  come  before. — Dear 
Myra,  don't  )'ou  know  nie '/  "  And  she  lays  her 
warm  lips  >ipon  the  clammy  forehead.  The  dy- 
ing eyes  cpiiver  —  open — recognize  her;  and  a 
faint  smile  hovers  over  the  lead-colored  lips. 

"  We  were — we  were — "  she  gasps,  and  then 
stops,  still  gasping,  and  unable  to  proceed. 

"  Is  it  any  thing  you  want  to  tell  me  ? ''  says 
Irene  gently,  trying  to  help  her. 

"We  were — "  commences  Myra  ftgaiii  ;  but 
Death  will  not  let  hor  finish.  "Tommy!"  .^lie 
ejaculates,  with  a  world  of  meaning  in  her  eyes, 
but  with  an  effort  so  painful  to  behold  that  Irene 
involuntarily  closes  her  ivn;  and  when  slie 
opens  them  again  Myra's  are  glazed,  her  lips  are 
parted,  and  two  quick,  sobbing  breaths  herald  the 
exit  of  her  soul. 

■  She's  a'going  ! "'  screams  Mrs.  Cray,  rushing 
forward  to  assist  in  the  great  ehangp. 

"  She  Is  f/ow,"  says  Irene,  ([uietly,  a:^,  awe- 
struck, she  sinks  down  by  the  bedside  and  covers 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  Poor  dear  I  "  quoths  Mrs.  Cray,  in  order  to 
bettor  the  occasion,  "  how  bad  she's  bin  a  want 
ing  of  you,  mum,  all  to-day,  to  be  here;  and  how 


she's  bin  a-asking  every  miuuto  when  I  thought 
y(ni"d  be  here.  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  tin. 
poor  creetur  couldn't  (  'ill  she'd  seen  you  agiiiii. 
I've  seen  'cm  lie  lik(!  i  -,  bless  'eui,  for  days  a 
lighten  for  their  breath,  ,,  1  iiot  able  to  go,  wliia 
there's  bin  a  pigeon-feather  in  the  ticking,  but 
never  from  trying  to  see  u  face  as  that  jioor 
thing  has  longed  to  see  yours.  And  I'm  sure,  if 
I've  sent  one  message  to  the  Court  to-day,  I've 
sent  a  dozen,  and  she  a-watchiu'  each  time  us 
though — " 

"  Oh  !  don't  tell  me  !  i)leasc,  don't  tell  me!" 
entreats  Irene,  as  the  whole  mournful  pniio. 
rania  passes  before  her  mental  vi.-ion,  and  ovtr. 
whelms  her  with  reproach,  that  ends  in  folj. 
I)ing.  Colonel  Morduunt  hears  the  sound  of  lur 
tears  through  the  open  casement,  and  comes  u 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

"  Irene — Irene  !  "  he  says,  remonstratingly. 

"  Oh  !  please  do  walk  up,  sir ;  it  is  all  over," 
says  ^Irs.  Cray,  with  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  an  i, 
for  the  sake  of  his  wife,  the  colonel  does  walk  up. 
When  he  reaches  the  little  room,  he  i-;  distre.s.itJ  | 
beyond  measure  at  the  sight  before  him  ;  tli' 
..oor  dead,  wasted  body  stretched  upon  the  bii!, 
and  his  beautiful  Irene  crying  beside  it  as  tho'.i{rl)  | 
her  heart  would  break. 

"Come!  my  dearest,"  he  says  soothin;:!;,  I 
"  you  can  do  no  more  good  here.  Let  nie  take  | 
you  home." 

But  she  turns  fiiim  him  :  she  will  not  answal 
him  ;  she  does  not  even  seem  to  be  aware  that  lie| 
is  i)rescnt. 

'•  I   hate  myself,   I   hate   myself,"  she  say-, 
vehemently ;  "  why  did  I  ever  consent  to  go  tj 
that  detestable  picnic,  when  my  place  was  hei\'| 
I  proiuised  her,  poor  dear  girl,  that  I  would  ecin':' 
again  this  morning,  and  she  has  been  waiting  ana  I 
watching  for  me,  and  thinking  that  I  had  forgo;- 
ten.     And  the  last  word  was  to  remind  me  oftii.' 
oath  I  took  to  protect  tier  child — and  even  that  I 
I  must  break.     And  she  is  about  me  now  ;  I  fid  [ 
it;  despising  me  for  my  we  ikness  and  my  fal.-o- 
hood.     Hut  she  cannot  think  me  more  degradn! 
than  I  think  myself." 

Colonel  Mordauiit  is  shocked  at  the  exptv-- 
sion  ;  he  cannot  bear  thac  it  should  be  connectt  i 
even  wrongfully,  w  ith  any  action  of  Irene's. 

"Degraded!  my  darling!  what  can  make  I 
you  use  such  a  term  with  reference  to  yoursell— I 
you  who  are  every  thing  that  is  true  and  noble  r 

"  True,  to  break  my  promise  to  the  dyini-'-l 
noble,  to  swear  an  ••ath  and  not  fulfill  it !  Oh,  \:^\ 
true  and  very  nobie !    I  wish  yo«  could  S'  o 
conduct  as  it  looks  to  ■e." 


rOOR  MYRA'S  DEATi[. 


80 


iicn  I  thought 
us  tbough  llif 
ii'cn  you  iijraiii. 
■Ill,  tor  iliiy.s  a 
jIc  to  go,  W lull 
c  tickinji,  Ijui 
i  as  tlml  iioor 
11(1  I'm  sui'f,  if 
rt  to-(liiy,  I'v.; 
(.■iiL'b  lime  as 

loii't  ti'U  inc  1 " 
iiouriil'iil  iiaiio^ 
i.sion,  and  over- 
t  ends  in  s^olj- 
e  sound  of  lut 
;,  nnd  eonics  to 

luonstratingly. 
it  13  ftll  ovor," 

0  licr  eyes,  aii'i,  | 
L'l  do.'S  walk  u[>. 
he  is  diriti'c?si.'J 

jt'loio  him  ;  tlu^ 

1  upon  the  l)fi!,  I 
side  it  as  though 

says  Hoothinf-'lj, 
Let  nie  t;iks 

will  not  ansmi 
be  aware  that  he  | 

ynelf,"  she  say,-, 
onsent  to  go  h  | 
jilace  was  hvw': 
lat  I  would  cciiio 
ocn  waiting  anil 
lat  1  had  for|:o;- 
cniiud  me  of  tiie 
-and  even  that  I 
me  MOW  ;  I  fid 
s  and  my  fal.-e] 
more  degracln 

I  at  the  ospri'! 
jld  be  connectci.  | 

of  Irene's, 
what   can  make 
ice  to  yourscl'.-l 
rue  and  noblu : 

to  the  dyini'-l 
Lilfill  it !  Oh,  \  -r^l 
(u  euuld  see  m 


"If  that  is  really  tho  light  in  whiih  you  viiw 
the  matter,  Ireiio,  I  will  opiioso  nofurthur  ol)ntii- 
clo  to  the  satisfaction  of  your  conscience.  You 
phall  keep  your  promise,  and  adopt  the  child." 

At  tiiat  she  lifts  her  lear-staiued  face  and  re- 
cards  him  curiously. 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  Philip  ?  " 
"Quite   in  earnest!    I  could  hardly  jest  on 
such  n  subject." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  thank  you — you  have  made 
iiic  feel  so  happy  ;  "  and,  regardless  of  spectators 
(tor  though  the  room  is  nearly  cleared  by  tliis 
time,  the  laundress  and  some  of  her  children  still 
remain  in  attendance),  up  comes  her  sweet  mouth 
to  meet  his,  ('(donel  Mordautit  is  already  repaid 
for  bis  generosity.  And  then  Irene  turns  to  the 
bed. 

"Myra!"  she  says,  ns  naturally  us  though 
the  poor  mother  wore  still  alive,  "  I  will  bo  true 
to  my  word.  I  will  take  your  little  one  and  bring 
liiin  up  for  you  ;  and  when  we  meet  again  you 
v.ill  forgive  mo  for  this  last  breach  of  faith." 

At  this  appeal,  Mrs.  Cray  pricks  up  her  ears  ; 
phiMiiidiMStands  it  at  once,  and  the  idea  of  get- 
ting rid  of  Tommy  is  too  weleomo  to  be  passed 
over  in  silence;  but,  lieitig  a  cunning  woman, 
•<he  foresees  that  it  will  strcngtiien  his  claim  if 
she  professes  to  have  been  aware  of  it  before- 
hand. 

"  Your  good  lady   is  talking  of  taking  the 

pi^or  child,  colonel,"  i'he  says,  whining,  "  which 

I'ra  sure  it  will  be  a  blessing  to  him,  and  may  be 

him  to  be  a  blessing  to  her.     Ah,  you  see  I  knows 

all  about  it ;  I've  bin  a  mother  to  that  poor  girl 

r.s  lies  thori',  and  who  should  she  tell  her  trou- 

I  hlos  and  'opes  to  if  it  wcarn't  to  me  ?     But  I  kep' 

her  misfortune  close,  didn't  I,  mum  ? — not  a  word 

j  passed  my   lips   but  that  all  the  village  might 

liave  heard,   which  it's  proved   by  not   a  soul 

knowing  of  it,  except  ourselves  and  Joel — nnd 

one  or  two  neighbors,  maybe,  and  my  brother  as 

I  lives  over  at  Fenton.    But  now  she's  gone — poor 

dear — aiul  you've  promised  to  do  kindly  by  the 

ihiki,  I  don't  care  who  knows  it,  for  it  can't  harm 

I  no  one." 

"Then  your  niece  told  yo>i  of  my  wife's  offer 
I  to  look  after  her  little  boy  ?  "  says  Colonel  Mor- 
daimt,  falling  into  the  trap. 

"  Oh,  lor !  yes,  sir ;  a  many  times  ;  which  I've 
I'Miked  forward  to  her  doing  so,  knowing  that  uo 
I  lady  could  break  her  promise  :  and  she's  always 
liocn  80  fond  of  Tommy,  too;  I'm  sure  he'll  take 
[to  her  jist  as  though  she  was  his  mother.  And 
I  it's  a.fta*  thing  for  the  child;  though  it'll  near 
Ihroak  my  heart  to  part  with  him." 


This  last  assertion  is  a  little  too  much,  c\ en 
for  Colonel  Mordaunl's  softiiieil  mood,  and  hi' 
rises  to  his  feet  hastily. 

"  Come,  dearest !  "  he  says  to  his  wife,  "  it  is 
time  we  were  going." 

"  .Villi  Tommy  '/  ''  sh.'  replies,  inipiiringly. 

"You  don't  want  to  take  him  with  you  now, 
surely  y  "  is  the  dubious  rejoinder. 

"Xo!  I  suppose  not!  but  —  how  will  he 
come  ?  " 

"  Lor,  mum!  I'll  bring  him  up  this  evening — 
he  .sha'n't  be  kep'  from  you,  not  half  an  hour 
more  than's  needful ;  but  I  must  reddle  hini  up  a 
bit  first,  and  give  him  a  clean  face." 

"Oh!  never  mind  his  face,"  begins  Irene; 
but  her  hu.<iband  cuts  her  short. 

"There,  there,  my  love  I  you  hear,  the  child 
will  be  up  this  evening.  Surely  that  is  all  that 
can  bo  required.  Oood-evening,  Mrs,  Cray. — 
Come,  Irene;"  and  with  one  farewell  look  at 
Myr.i's  corpse,  she  follows  him  from  the  room. 

All  the  way  home  the  husband  and  wife  sit 
very  clo.^e  to  e;;"!i  other,  but  they  do  not  speak. 
The  scene  they  have  just  witnessed  has  sobered 
them.  Colonel  Mordaiint  is  the  first  to  break  tho 
silence,  .Ind  he  docs  so  as  the  carriage  ."tops  be- 
fore the  hall-door  of  the  Court. 

"  I  am  thinking  what  the  d-  1  you'll  do  with 
it,"  iio  ejaculates,  siiddi  nly. 

"  With  the  child  y — oh  !  a  thousand  things," 
she  says,  joyously.  Ilir  voice  startles  him;  he 
turns  and  looks  into  her  face  ;  it  1^  beaming  with 
hap[)iness  and  a  wonderful  new  light  lliiil  he  Ims 
never  seen  there  before. 

"  Why,  Irem  ,"  ho  (Hcliiiiiis,  ua  lin  jiiinds  her 
(Mil,  "  what  is  tliidf  you  limit  as  If  ynii  lind  tome 
into  a  fortune." 

"Uei-ause  I  have  sueli  u  dear,  K"<)d  old  bus. 
band,"  she  whispers  fondly,  us  sho  piiss(s  him 
and  runs  up-stairs  to  clruss  (lut  dinner. 

Of  course  the  whole  conversation  at  the  din- 
ner-table  is  furnished  by  (he  discussion  of  Mrs. 
Mordaent's  strange  freak.  I!y  the  time  Irene 
descends  to  the  dining-room,  she  finds  the  story 
is  known  all  over  the  house;  and  the  opihUuis  on 
it  are  free  and  various.  Mrs,  Cavendish  holds 
up  her  hands  at  »ho  very  Idea. 

"  My  dear  colonel !  you  spoil  this  child. 
Fancy,  letting  her  adopt  tlu-  brat  of  no  one  knows 
who! — the  trouble  it  will  give  you — the  money 
it  will  cost." 

"Oh,  Irene  has  promised  faithfully  I  shall 
have  no  trouble  in  the  matter,"  laughs  the  colo- 
lii  1,  who,  having  once  given  his  consent  to  the  ar- 


J  "J 


PI 


80 


"NO  INTEN'TIONS." 


m 


H' 


#i 


rangcmciii,  will  never  lictiuy  tliat  it  was  against 
Mri  will  ;  '•  anil  as  for  tlie  exjienHi' — Well,  1  don't 
think  one  poor  little  mortal  will  add  nineh  to  the 
cxpenditnre  of  the  household." 

"  I'aitieulaiiy  as  I  intend  to  pay  foi'  him  out 
of  uiy  i)in-ni()ncy,"  says  Irene. 

"  Jiut  the  uuisunco,  my  dear;  no  money  will 
pay  for  tliat.  Ah  !  you  won't  believe  uw  uow — 
but  l)y-and-l)y — wait  a  bit — you'll  see!"  with 
mysterious  words  and  winks,  of  whieh  her  niece 
t:\kea  no  notiee, 

"  She'll  have  to  end  by  tuininj;  him  into  a 
buttons-boy,''  )'eniark.s  her  husband,  who  is  se- 
cretly delii^hled  with  t!ie  pantomime. 

"  I'm  sure  wo  bIuiH  do  nothini;  of  the  sort," 
says  Ireuo  quickly,  and  then  calms  down  n(;ain. 
"  I  mean  that  1  sliall  grow  too  fond  of  the  child  to 
make  him  into  a  servant." 

"  You  fond  of  a  baby,  Irene,"  says  JIary  Cav- 
endish ;  "  that  is  just  what  puzzles  me — w-hy,  I'm 
sure  you  always  said  you  hated  children." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  then !  keep  your  own  opin- 
ion— you  know  .■■o  mneli  more  al)out  it  than  1 
do,''  with  a  little  ri.-ing  temper. 

"  Irene,  my  darling  !  "  says  the  colonel,  sooth- 
ingly- 

"  Why  do  they  all  set  upon  me,  then,  Philip  ? 
What  is  theio  so  extraordinary  in  my  wishing  to 
befriend  a  wretcheil  little  outcast?  I'm  sure  I 
almost  begin  to  wish  I  had  never  seen  the  child 
at  all." 

"  Let  us  change  tlie  suliject,"  is  her  huabaud's 
only  answer. 

But  when  the  dinner  is  over  and  tlie  evening 
draws  to  a  close,  Irene  begins  to  move  restlessly 
uj)  and  down  the  house.  She  has  already  taken 
ber  maid  Pha-be  into  lier  confidence,  and  the 
girl,  being  country  bred,  and  with  no  absurd  no- 
tions above  her  station,  is  ahnost  as  delighted  at 
the  prospect  of  having  the  little  child  to  take 
care  of  as  her  mistress.  And  they  have  arranged 
that  he  is  to  .sleep  in  Phcebe's  bed,  which  is  large 
and  airy.  And  before  tlic  house-maid  comes  up 
with  a  broad  grin  on  her  countenance  to  an- 
nounce that  Mr.-;.  Ci.iy,  tlie  laundress,  has  brought 
a  little  boy  for  "  missus-,"  thc/o  extravagant 
young  women  have  sliced  up  half  a  dozen  or 
more  good  articles  of  wear,  in  order  that  the 
young  rascal  n  'y  have  a  wardrobe. 

In  the  midst  of  their  arrangements,  Master 
Tommy,  clean  as  to  the  outside  platter,  but  smell- 
ing very  strong  after  the  manner  cf  the  Great 
Unwashed,  even  though  they  dwell  in  villages,  is 
introduei  d  by  his  guardian,     Irene  cannot  talk 


to  Mrs.  Cray  lo-niglit,  sho  dlsniisfica  the  suljut 
of  i)oor  Myra  and  her  <leath-sUuggles  suminaiilv; 
and,  thrusting  a  tive-poiind  note  ii'to  the  l.iin,. 
dress's  hand,  gets  rid  of  her  as  soon  as  she  iK. 
eenlly  can.  She  is  trying  to  have  the  little  eliild 
all  to  herself,  and  she  does  not  feel  as  though  L. 
were  really  her  own  until  the  woman  who  bear- 
him  is  once  more  outside  the  door.  And  then  >l, 
turns  to  Phd'be  triumphantly. 

"And  now,  Pliu.'be,  wluit  shall  we  do  wv; 
him  ?  " 

"  I  sliould  wash  him,  ma'am,"  replies  Pha'lif, 
following  the  advice  of  the  great  Mr.  Dick,  wiili 
respect  to  David  Copperfield. 

"Of  course!  we'll  give  him  a  warm  biitli 
IJun  down-stairs  and  get  the  water,  Pha-bc.  At,'.  I 
is  this  his  night-gown'?"  examining  the  bundle  ci 
rags  that  Mrs.  Cray  has  left  behind  her.  "Oli'l 
what  a  wretched  thing ;  but,  luckily,  it  is  diai:. 
lie  must  have  new  night-gowns,  Phirbc,  at  oikv, 
and—" 

"  He  must  have  cvrry  thittfj  new,  nui'am,  lilc;;  I 
his  heart!"  exelaims  Plnebe,  enthusiastically,  a- 1 
sho  disappears  in  (piest  of  the  water.  Winn  I 
she  is  gone,  Irene  lifts  the  child  uj'on  her  knc.l 
and  gazes  in  his  face. 

"  Tommy,"  sho  says,  gently,  "  Tommy,  \vi  I 
you  love  me  '?  " 

"  Iss,"  repli(3  Tommy,  who  has  seen  herdfti:.] 
enough  to  feel  familiar  with  her. 

"  You  arc   going  to  be  my  little  boy  iiov 
Tommy." 

"  Iss,"  repeats  Tommy,  as  he  surveys  tbt 
wonderful  fairy-land  in  whieh  lie  finds  himself.  1:1 
must  be  rccoided  of  Tonnny  that,  with  all  ji 
faults,  he  is  not  shy. 

In  another  minute  Phoebe  is  back  with  tl, 
water,  and  the  bath  is  filled,  and  the  two  wou:-: 
undress  the  child  together  and  plunge  him  ii;,| 
and  sponge  and  lather  him  kneeling  on  each  si : 
the  bath  the  while,  and  laughing  at  their  nwrl 
awkwardness  at  the  unaccustomed  task,  icil 
then  Tommy  gets  tne  soap  into  his  eyes,  aii'l 
roars,  whieh  cheerful  sound,  attracting  Culor.iil 
Mordaunt'a  attention  as  ho  mounts  the  stair;, [ 
causes  him  to  peep  into  the  open  bedroom-dno: 
unseen.  And  there  he  watches  his  young  wil;| 
and  lier  maid  first  kiss  the  naked  cupid  to  cocf 
sole  \m>.  .md  then  return  to  the  soaping  anJj 
splashing  until  they  have  made  him  smile  again. 
And  when  the  washing  is  completed,  and  Phocbsl 
.-tretches  out  her  arms  to  take  the  child  and  dryl 
him.  Colonel  Mordaunt  sees  with  astonishincnil 
that  her  mistress  will  not  allow  it. 

"  No,  no,  Phwbe  !  give  him  to  me,"  she  savsj 


MRS.   CRAY   AND   II KR  SO.V. 


87 


nog  the  Bulijtci 
irli'S  Huiiiiimiilv : 
>  ii'tu  tlio  l.iiii.. 
voiiu  ntt  hIk!  (Ii. 
;  lliu  little  cliil.i 
I'l  m  tliou^li  li. 
miin  who  Ijimi- 
•.     And  then  >ln 

nil   wu  do  \>\\\. 

'  ri'i>lic!*  riidlii', 
it  Mr.  Dick,  Willi  I 

n  a  wnna  but': 
^r.riuvbc.  All! 
ing  the  bundle  of 
lind  her.  "Oli' 
;kily,  it  is  fliw. 
rhtrbc,  lit  oiK\, 

icw,  ma'am,  Mcs- 
ilhusiiislieally,  a- 
e   water.     'Wli'il 
1  upon  her  km 

r,   "Tommy,  vi' 

las  seen  her  dfu:. 

r  little  boy  im 

he  Burvcys  tli 

finds  himself.    I:| 

at,  with   ull  I' 

s  baek   with  tl. 
1  the  two  woffii.. 
I  iihingc  him  ic, 
^liiig  on  each  si: 
ng  P.t  their  (>•■■- 
onicd  task.    Acil 
Xo  hi.s  eyes,  at 'I 
ttracting  Color.t'il 
cunts   the  st;>ir!,f 
en  bcdrooni-'ifi 

his  young  ^il'l 
id  eupid  to  coci 
the  soaping  anJl 
hira  smile  agaial 

•ted,  and  riiffibsj 
the  child  and  dnl 
■ith  astonishiBentl 
it.  [ 

to  me,"  she  says, 


authoritatively,  as  she  prepaioa  her  la]!  to  reeulvo 
tlio  dripping  infunl ;  and  tiicn,  as  tlio  servant 
laiigliingly  obeys  her  orders,  and  curries  tlic  biitli 
into  the  next  room,  ho  walehes  Irene's  lips 
pressed  on  the  boy's  undiied  I'aee. 

"  My  little  Tommy  !  "  slie  say.s,  us  ."he  does  ."o. 

He  sees  and  hears  it,  turns  away  with  a  high, 
and  a  heart  heavy,  he  knows  not  wlienfore,  and 
goes  down-stairs,  as  lieaseended  them,  uiniotieed. 

A  week  has  passed.  Poor  Myra's  form  has 
just  l>een  left  to  rest  beneath  a  rough  hillock  of 
clay  in  the  church-yard,  and  Joel  Cray  is  seated 
in  the  sanded  kitchen  of  his  mother's  cottage, 
his  arras  cast  over  the  deal  table,  and  his  head 
bent  down  despairingly  upon  tlieni, 

Mrs.  Cray,  returning  abruptly  from  having 
just  "  dropped  in  "  to  a  neighbor's,  to  display  her 
"black  "  and  furnish  all  funereal  details,  (inds  hira 
in  this  position. 

"  Come,  lad,"  she  says,  ronglily,  but  not  un- 
kindly, "  it's  no  use  fretlin'  ;  it  won't  bring  her 
baek  agin." 

"There's  no  call  for  you  to  tell  ine  lliat, 
motlicr,''  ho  answers,  wearily,  as  he  raises  two 
liullow  eyes  from  tlie  ihelter  of  liis  hands  ;  "it's 
writ  too  plainly  hero  " — striking  his  breast — "  but 
you  might  have  warned  me  slie  was  goin'." 

"  Warned  you  !  when  all  the  world  could  see 
it!  ^Vhy,  the  poor  creetur  has  had  deatli 
marked  in  her  faee  lor  tlu  last  sis  months  ;  and 
Mrs.  Jones  has  jest  bin'  a-sayin'  it's  a  wonder  as 
slio  lasted  so  long,"  replies  Mrs.  Cray,  as  she 
liangs  her  new  bonnet  on  a  nail  in  the  kitelien 
wall,  and  carefully  folds  up  her  bhawl. 

"  All  the  world  but  mo,  you  mean.  'Twould 
have  come  a  bit  easier  if  I  had  seen  it,  perhaps. 
Why,  'twas  only  the  other  day  I  was  begging  of 
hiT  to  be  my  wife,  and  now,  to  think  I've  just 
come  from  burying  her  !  Oh,  good  Lord !  "  and 
down  sinks  the  poor  fellow's  head  again,  while 
the  tears  trickle  through  his  earth-stained  fingers. 

Mrs.  Cray  loves  her  son  after  her  own  fashion. 
It  is,  in  a  great  measure,  her  love  for  him  and 
fyiupathy  with  his  disappointment  tliat  have  made 
her  hard  upon  Myra  and  Myra's  child  ;  and  she  do. 
sires  to  give  him  comfort  in  his  present  trouble. 
So  she  draws  a  chair  close  beside  him,  and  sits 
down  deliberately  to  tear  open  all  his  worst 
wounds.  But  it  is  not  entirely  her  want  of  edu- 
cation that  beget.!  this  pecvdiarity,  for  tlio  exam- 
ple has  been  set  her,  ever  since  the  world  began, 
by  people  as  well-meaning  and  far  less  ignorant 
than  herself. 

"  Xow,  where'a  the  good  of  thiukin'  of  that, 


lad  '/  "  sli.'  says,  as  soothingly  as  her  liarpli  voico 
wiilperiiiit.  "She'd  never  have  bin  yours  hud 
.she '".vcd  ever  ho  long;  and  nil  the  better,  too, 
for  no  w(jman  can  niaku  u  good  wife  when  her 
fancy's  fixed  upon  another  man." 

"  And  if  hers  were,  you  netnhi't  remind  a  fel- 
ler of  it,"  ho  replies,  uneasily. 

"  Oh  !  but  I  says  it  for  your  good.  Not  tliat 
I  wants  to  speak  a  word  against  the  poor  thing 
as  is  gone;  for  when  a  fellow-crectur's  under  the 
groimd,  let  his  faults  bo  bnrieil  atop  of  him,  say 
I;  that's  my  ma\iu),  and  I  keeps  to  it.  Slill, 
there's  no  denying  poor  Myra  were  very  flighty, 
and  a  deal  of  trouble  to  us  all.  I'm  sure  I  thought 
tins  afternoon,  when  I  see  the  handsome  grave 
Simmons  had  dug  for  her,  and  all  the  village 
looking  on  at  the  burial,  and  Tommy  bronglit 
down  from  the  Court  by  the  coloiuTs  lady  her- 
self, in  a  brpnd-ncw  suit  of  black,  and  with  a 
crape  bow  and  a  feather  in  his  hut,  that  no  one 
would  have  thought  as  seed  it  that  v.  o  was  only 
burying  a — " 

"  Mother,  what  are  you  going  to  say  V  "  de- 
mands Joel,  as,  witli  a  clinelied  hand  and  gloomy 
eyes,  he  springs  to  his  feet. 

"Lor!  you  ui-odn't  fly  out  so.  I  w.sn't  go- 
ing to  say  nothing  but  the  truth." 

"The  truth!  15ut  Is  it  tlic  tinihV  'Wlio 
knows  that  it's  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Wiiy,  you  wouldn't  be  after  ;  tiying  as  she 
was  an  honest  woman,  Joel  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I'd  rather  be  saying  nothin' 
of  her  at  all.  My  poor  girl,  trodden  down  and 
sjiit  on  !  And  she,  wlio  was  tin,-  bonniest  lass  for 
miles  round  I'liestley. — Mother,  I  liill^t  leave  this 
place." 

"Leave!  when  you've  just  got  such  a  fine 
situation  under  Farmer  Green  I  Have  you  lost 
your  senses,  lad  ?  " 

''I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care.  I  don't 
seem  to  have  nothi'i'  now ;  but  I  can't  1/ide  here 
any  longer  ;  there's  something  in  the  air  that 
chokes  me." 

"  But  where  would  you  be  going  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  that  either.  Jest  where  chance 
may  take  me.  Only  be  sure  of  one  thing,  mother 
— I  don't  come  back  to  Priestley  till  I've  cleared 
her  name  or  killed  the  man  who  ruined  her." 

"You're  going  in  search  u{  him,  Joel '?  " 

"It's  bin  growing  on  mccver  since  that  even- 
ing I  caino  home  and  found  her  dead. — I  won't 
believe  that  Myra  was  the  girl  to  give  herself 
over  to  destruction ;  but  if  she  were — well,  then 
the  man  who  destroyed  her  must  answer  for  it 
to  me." 


n 


■'rl 


m 


m 


i'*-i 


88 


"KO  INTEXTIONH. 


!■    I 


\^\} 


I  -ll 


"  lliit  whafll  I  (Id  without  you  ?  "  coinmciwei  | 
MrM.  Cr.xy,  ih  Iut  n]ii'(iii  f.'0('!<  up   to  riTclvi'  tin; 
inatiTniil  (li'<)|)iiiii).'s  nC  (k'Hpair. 

"  You'll  do  will  onousli,  mother.  If  I  dlihi't 
(eel  that,  I  wouldn't  fro.  Aiu\  the  ohild  (if  it 
wasn't  for  fur,  I  could  Hiiy,  Cur."!'  Iiim  ! '  Hut  I 
won't.  No,  Myrn,  never  you  four ;  he'll  ollayH 
Imvc  a  fiji'iirl  in  nn'),  he'.'*  olT  jDur  ImikN,  niid 
well  provided  for.  So  you've  iiotliiii'  liut  your 
own  little  ones  to  look  after.  And  you'll  havo 
friends  nt  the  Court,  too.     You  ^on't  rnisH  ine." 

"  Hut  how  nre  you  ever  tolind  iho  f^etitleumfi, 

Jocir- 

"  I  luiow  liin  niinio  wnH  '  'Anilllon,'  mid  I'll 
track  that  name  tlu-ouj^li  the  world  until  I  light 
on  liini.  And  1  saw  hitn  once,  mother.  'Twus 
only  for  a  few  miuiito.^,  but  I  marked  him  well- 
a  tall,  up-standing  feller,  with  dark  hair  and  Idiie 
eyes.  The  child's  the  very  moral  of  him,  curse 
him  !  And  I'll  search  till  I  come  acrost  that  lace 
af;ain;  and  whci;  I  coir.cs  acrosi  it,  we'll  have  our 
rcckoniiitf,  or  I'm  much  mistaken." 

"And  how  shall  you  live  meanwhile  ?" 

"  Ab  I  always  have  lived,  hy  my  hands  And 
now,  mother,  put  up  my  hundle,  and  let  me  be 
going." 

"To-night,  lad?  Oh,  you  c;in't  be  in  ear- 
nest." 

"  Yes,  to-niglit.  I  tell  you  there's  something 
in  the  air  of  this  place  that  stops  my  breathing. 
I  could  no  more  lie  down  and  sleep  in  my  bed 
here,  while  sin;  lies  out  yonder  with  the  lumps  of 
clay  \ipon  her  tender  breast,  than  I  could  eat 
while  she  was  starvin'.  Let  me  go,  mother.  If 
you  don't  want  to  sec  mc  mad,  let  mo  go  where  I 
can  still  fancy  she's  a-living  hero  with  you,  and 
that  cofllii  and  that  shroi'd  is  all  a  horrid 
dream." 

And  so,  regardless  of  his  mother's  entreaties 
or  his  own  well-doing,  Joel  Cray  goes  forth  from 
Priestley.  While  the  neighbors  are  preparing  to 
retire  to  their  couches,  and  the  dead  woman's 
cliild,  alike  unconscious  of  his  motherless  condi. 
tion  and  tlie  stigma  resting  on  his  birth,  is  lying, 
flushed  and  rosy,  in  his  first  sleep  in  Pha'be's 
bed,  the  uncouth  figure  shambles  slowly  from  the 
laundress's  cottage,  and  takes  the  high-road  to 
Fenton,  which  is  on  the  way  to  the  nearest 
town.  But  t)ofore  he  quits  the  village  he  passes 
a  little  Bhamefacedly,  even  though  the  dusk  of 
the  summer's  eve  has  fallen  and  he  is  quite  alone, 
through  the  wooden  wicket  that  guards  God's 
acre,  and  finds  his  way  up  to  the  new-made 
grave. 

But  it  looks  so  desoliMe  and  mournful,  cov- 


ered ill  with  Its  hillock  of  damp  icd  earth,  that 
ho  cannot  stami  the  sight,  anil,  as  he  pazes  at  it, 
his  honest  luca^t  begins  to  heave. 

"  I  can't  abcar  It,"  ho  whispern,  hourHcly,  "ii, 
liiivo  her  iiere — the  thought  of  It  will  haunt  m, 
night  and  day." 

And  then  ho  Ntnopa  ami  gathers  up  a  mor.iil 
of  thiMininvitiiig  marl  Htudded  wiih  rough  8tiiiii« 

"And  lo  think  you  .«hoiild  be  lying  tinder  lliii 
—you  whoso  head  nhuuld  be  resting  on  mv 
bo^om — oh,  my  darlin',  toy  darliit' !  my  heart'l! 
break  !  " 

And  for  a  few  moments  the  poor  wretch  fluili 
relief  in  a  gush  of  tears. 

"  I'm  glad  no  one  saw  'em,"  he  ponders  quaint. 
ly,  as  the  last  of  the  low  sobs  breaks  from  hi- 
laboring  liosom ;  "  btit  I  feels  till  the  beltu. 
A)id  I  swear  by  'em — by  these  here  tears  nliii!. 
till),  thought  of  you  has  drawcd  from  me,  Myr.i, 
that  I  don't  look  upon  your  grave  again  until  I'v 
had  salisfiietiiii  for  the  wrong  he's  done  yon, 
Oh,  Tiiv  lost  darlin',  I  shall  never  love  another 
woman !  (iood-by,  till  we  meets  in  a  hnpi>i('r 
world  than  this  has  l)een  for  bnlh  of  us  !  " 

And  when  the  morning  breaks,  he  is  tniks 
awav  from  I'riostlev. 


CnAPTER  VIII. 

Mrs.  Cavkndish  and  her  daughter  are  gone; 
the  sportsnien  are  gone;  and,  with  the  cxceptio;i 
of  Oliver  Halslon,  whom  Irene  has  come  to  look 
upon  almost  as  one  of  the  family.  Fen  Court  i- 1 
cleared  of  guests,  ond  sho  is  left  once  more  to 
the  society  of  her  hii.-band  and  her  sistcr-in-luw,  | 
and  the  care  of  her  little  protft/f,  Tommy  Brown. 
The  transformation  wrought  in   this  child   by  s 
few  weeks'  attention  and  a  suit  of  new  clothes  is 
something  marvelous.    No  one  who  had  only  .'Cin 
him   grubbing  in  the  front-yard  of  Mrs.  Cray'^ 
domicile,  or  driving  the  truant  jugs  in  from  tlio 
lane,  would  recognize  him  now.    His  hair,  cleansed  j 
from  its  normal  state  of  dirt,  is  several  .shade; 
lighter  than  it  was  before,  and  lies  in  loose  wav- 
ing curls  about  his  head  and  neck.     The  tan  i.* 
grodually  wearing  off  his  broad  white  brow,  nmi  | 
his   plump  neck  and  arms  '\nd  shoulders,  now 
fully  exposed  by  his  low  frocks,  make  him  appear  I 
what  he  really  is — a  very  handsome  child.    Above  | 
all,  he  possesses  the  violet  eyes  that  first  attraet- 
cd  Irene's  notice  ;  and  beneath  the  dark  lashes  of 
which  he  has  a.  quaint,  half-sby,  half-sly  manner 


m^ 


.  :  -.i.-J»L^..i.*l^Kii 


THOMAS   ST.   JOUX. 


•• 


IV  wretch  limli 


re  loars  wliii 


of  lexikln?  up  at  lierwlili-h  nmki's  Ikt  lioart  tliroli 
oiii'li  tiii>«  fill'  .ncouiiti-r.M  it,  tliough  hIus  fan  hiinl- 
Iv  tell  tho  rcaaoii  why.  Itiit  tin'  nmiii'  liv  whiili 
till'  boy  li*  Kt'iJiiiH)  known  united  upon  her  uiir  ; 
ntiil  hor  nniioynncfl  on  IhN  sti>>Je<'t  U  a  source  of 
III  vi\' fiilliiiK  iiMiu.icmi'ipt  to  T'l'iifl  Moviluunt. 
Ho  con-iilt'fM  it  do  llioroiiuMy  IVininiiio. 

" Sii(  li  a  ilrt'iiilful  namo !  "  she  Hoji*,  plaintively, 
n<  tlii'V  arc  sitliliU  out  ofiloois  one  pvi'nili ',  uiid 
wuttiiin;;  tiift  child  plnv  upon  Ihr  liiwn.  "  'l\.inm>j 
llfoirii  I  It  hu«  not  even  pot  tito  virtue  of  Hin- 
ijMliirilv-  to  rci'oiiinicnd  it.  Could  any  thing  lio 
iiKiri'  t'oininoiiplao'  ?  " 

"Why  don't  you  reohil.-ilfn  him,  my  donr?" 
doniiinds  the  colonel,  latif^hinfr.  "  I  ,i"l  him  Auhrey 
lie  Vt  re,  or  Limecl'  t  Vane,  or  Percival  Tji.-iii',  or 
liy  liny  othef  Hiinple  and  ni)i>retcnding  title.  He 
i<  Riro  ti)  end  hy  l)t'i!if;  a  footman,  or  a  diuinnu't', 
(ir  11  sliop-l)oy    -nolliinf:  eimld  l>o  nioie  iijiin-njiri- 

nte." 

"IIo  shall  iiirir  lie  any  tliini;  of  the  sort," 
cries  Ircno,  lndi;.'naiilly ;  "and  it  is  not  Itit.d  of 
Toa  to  liiijrh  at  me,  Philip,  when  you  know  1  am 
fimil  of  the  child.  1  ilon't  mind  Tommy  so  inueh. 
Tlioinas  isn't  a  pretty  name,  but  it  was  my  dear 
father's,  and  there  are  plenty  of  Thomases  in  the 
pcoraije  ;  but  I  can't  stand  Urowii." 

"Sligo  family,"'  interpolate."!  her  husband,  "ith 
mock  8crioii-ii.  jii. 

"  0  Philip,  do  bu  quiet  '  Of  cour-e,  if  it 
were  his  rightful  name,  there  would  bo  no  help 
for  it;  but  as  he  has  no  name  at  all,  poor  little 
fellow,  I  don't  SCO  why  it  should  not  be  changed." 

"  N'or  I.  AVhat  do  you  propose  to  change  it 
to?" 

"I  suppose,  Philip —  Now,  I  know  Pm  going 
tosny  a  very  stupid  thing,  so  I  give  you  fair 
warning  ;  but  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  do  to  call  him 
I'V  my  maiden  name  ?  " 

"  What,  St.  John  ?  " 

"Yes,"  confusedly,  "  Thomas  St.  John.  After 
papa,  you  know." 

"  My  dear  Irene,  yon  have  gone  clean  out  of 
your  senses  about  that  child.  Pick  a  beggar's 
Iirat  from  the  gutter,  and  dub  him  Avith  your 
fitlior's  name  ! — with  the  name  of  my  cousin.  I 
couldn't  hear  of  it,  AVhat  on  earth  would  peo- 
ple say  ?  " 

"Let  them  say  what  they  like.  They  must 
have  something  to  talk  about — " 

"They  shall  not  talk  about  my  wife.  No, 
Irene.  I  have  permitted  you  to  follow  your  own 
inclinations  in  adopting  this  boy — whether  wisely 
or  not  remains  to  be  determined — but  I  will  not 
hear  of  his  being  endowed  with  the  name  of  anv 


one  belonging  to  my  fuiiil.\.  Call  him  M<ntino- 
roney,  or  l*lantngeiii>f,or  any  toinfooliry  youmny 
fancy,  but  N't  in  havi-  no  trilling  wiih  what  Is 
sacred."  And,  so  saying,  <'oloiiel  Monlaiini  rises 
fi'Oiu  lih  neat,  nnd  walk*  back  into  the  hou^'e. 
He  is  bcirintiing  to  feel  ii  little  jealous  of  the  In- 
terest evinei'd  in  Tommy  itn     n. 

Ii-cni-  remains  win-re  he  l.ft  her,  red  mid  si- 
lent. Hbe  does  not  aiteiii|it  to  detain  him,  or  to 
lall  liim  buck,  for  his  words  liaNclel't  a  sore  itU' 
prcsslon  on  licr  inlti'l,  and  she  is  afiaid  to  truiit 
lier:!elf  to  S|)eak.  '.  (  seems  fio  liird  to  her  that 
every  one  should  i  ~eiit  her  di  -iie  to  be  a  moth- 
er to  this  poor  motherless  baby,  or  to  iorg'  I  that 
so  wide  a  ,'ap  exists  between  herself  iiihIi  lilm. 
And  she  watches  tl.>  litll  ■  Mai  k  frock  and  white 
pinafore,  as  their  own  t  toddles  alpout  the  grafs, 
now  nriking  ineff'.'ctual  nl tempts  to  irrali  a  inotli 
that  till!  evening  breezes  have  avMikenod,  then 
stooping  to  pick  oil"  the  heads  (d"  the  dai-iies  tlii*t 
the  mowing-ninehine  has  j)a,-ised  over,  until  h(  r 
thoughts  wander  to  his  poor  d  .id  mr)!!!^-,  and 
lur  eyes  (ill  with  tears. 

"I  hojic — that  is,  I  .-ui»po-e,  that  iiiV  brother 
—  but  what  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Mordaiinl?"  re- 
marks  the  sapient  Isabella,  who,  book  in  hand, 
has  been  silting  at  a  respictful  distance  from 
the  master  and  mistress  of  Fen  Court,  as  tliougli 
she  had  no  right  to  np[ir(i.ich  them  or  juln  in 
their  conversation. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — I  wasn't  listi  iiing,"  re- 
joins Frene,  as  she  (piiekl^  I'links  away  the  drops 
that  hang  upon  her  la.sle  ■ 

"  I  mean — he  Is  not  angry,  I  ti  ost,  or  ve.\cd, 
with  what  you  said,  as  he  has  '^one  indoors,  you 
see." 

"Wliai,  Philip?  why  should  he  be?  Wo 
were  only  talking  about  Toimiiy. — Ah!  you 
mustn't  lio  that,  dear,"  as  the  child  plunges  over 
a  (lower-bed  in  tiie  ardor  of  the  chase.  "  Como 
here.  Tommy — come  to  me.'' 

Hut  prompt  obedience  not  lieing  one  of  Tom- 
my's many  virtues,  Irene  has  to  go  in  pursuit 
of  him ;  and,  having  captured,  she  brings  liiiu 
back  to  the  garden  bench,  and  scats  him  on 
her  knee.  Miss  Mordaunt  immediately  retreats 
to  the  farthest  extremity.  It  is  the  funniest  thing 
in  the  world  to  see  these  two  women  with  tho 
child  between  them — the  delight  of  the  one,  nnd 
the  distaste  and  almost  fear  of  the  other,  being 
so  plainly  depicted  on  their  countenances. 

"  Xow,  Tommy,  do  sit  still,"  says  L-ene.— 
"  What  a  weight  the  fellow  grows  !  I  am  sure  he 
must  be  pounds  heavier  than  when  he  came  here. 
— See  1  here's  my  watch.     Put  it  to  your  ear,  and 


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Corporation 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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NO  INTENTIONS.' 


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hear  tlic  tkk-litk. — Hasn't  he  got  lovely  hair, 
Isabella?" 

"  It  appears  to  be  vciy  fine,"  replies  Mis.s 
Mordaunt. 

"  It'.s  as  soft  a3  silk,  and  curls  quite  naturally. 
— No,  darling — not  my  ear-rinj^i.  You  hurt  me  ! 
— oh !  how  he  does  pull.  And  now  he  wants 
that  rose  out  of  jour  dress.  What  a  child  it  is  ! 
— No,  Tommy  mustn't  take  poor  auntie's  rose. 
(Ho  may  call  you  'auntie,'  mayn't  he,  Isa- 
bella ?)  " 

"  Well,  if  Philip  has  no  objection ;  but  of 
course — '' 

"  What  possibh;  objection  could  Philip  make  ? 
The  child  must  call  us  something,  lie's  going 
to  call  me  '  mamma,'  I  know  that ! — Who  am  I, 
Tommy  ? — now,  tell  me." 

"  Mamma ! — you's  ray  mamma,"  replies  Tom- 
my, as  he  makes  another  grab  at  the  car-rings. 

"  You  darling !  But  you  will  pull  your  mam- 
ma's cars  out  by  the  roots.  And  you  positively 
make  my  knees  ache  with  your  weight.  Just 
take  him  for  a  minute,  Isabella.  You  can  have 
no  'dea  how  heavy  he  is."  And,  without  cere- 
mony, Irene  places  the  boy  in  the  arms  of  her 
sister-ia-law.  Miss  Mordaunt  receives  him  on  a 
Lard  and  bony  lap,  with  a  deep  well  in  the  centre 
of  it,  as  though  he  were  a  wild  animal,  warranted 
to  bite  upon  the  first  occasion ;  and  Tommy  doesn't 
like  the  situation.  lie  is  of  a  rebellious  and  dem- 
ocratic turn  of  mind,  and  has  no  courtly  hesita- 
tion in  calling  a  spade  by  its  right  name.  And 
.some  of  Tommy's  right  names,  acquired  outside 
the  Priestley  public-house,  arc  very  wrong  names 
indeed. 

"  Let  mo  go  !  "  he  says  wildly,  as  Miss  Mor- 
daunt's  arms,  in  deference  to  Irene's  wishes, 
make  a  feeble  barrier  to  retain  him.  "  I  don't 
like  00  " 

"  0  Tommy,  Tonmiv,  that's  naughty.  You 
must  love  poor  auntie,"  remonstrates  Irene. 
But  the  child  struggles  on. 

"  I  don't  like  oo — I  don't  like  oo — oo's  ugly — 
go's  a  devil.' "  he  winds  up  with,  triumphantly,  as 
he  escapes  from  her  grasp,  and  rushes  back  up- 
on the  flower-beds. 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  I  titist  you  will  not 
ask  me  to  feel  his  weight  again,"  says  poor  Isa- 
bella, who  is  quite  excited  by  the  compliments 
she  has  so  unexpectedly  received. 

"It  is  very  naughty  of  him,"  replies  Irene, 
soothingly.  "I  must  scold  him  well;  in  fact,  I 
would  slap  his  hands  if  I  did  not  know  that  his 
language  is  entirely  attributable  to  the  horrible 
way  in  which  he  has  been  brought  up.    Poor  lit- 


tle child  !    Fancy  how  shocking  it  is  that  a  buLj 
of  his  ago  should  even  know  such  a  word  I " 

"  I  trust — that  is,  it  would  be  very  unpleasaw  I 
for  all  parties,  if  he  were  to  call  my  brother  l<v  | 
Bueli  a   name,"  remarks  Miss  Mordaunt  in  In: 
primmest  manner. 

"Oh!  don't  tell  him,  please,"  says  Irene,  as  | 
she  catches  up  the  truant  to  carry  hin  off  to  bed. 
As  she  makes  the  request,  she  sighs.     She  sctr 
so  i)lainly  that  she  will  have  to  bear  the  brutt 
of  all  Master  Tommy's  peccadilloes. 

J'ha'bc  meets  her  at  the  bedroom-door  witli  a  | 
message. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  Mrs.  Cray's  waiting  ia  I 
the  kitchen  to  know  if  she  can  speak  to  you." 

"  Oh,  of  course  !  Tell  them  to  show  her  into  | 
my  morning-room,  and  then  come  back  and  tali, 
the  child ;  "  and  in  another  minute  Irene  is  c(s\- 
fronted  with  the  laundress. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Cray,  is  there  any  thing  I  can  do  | 
for  you  this  evening  ?  " 

"  Thank   you,  no,  ma'am.    The  washing  a- 1 
you've  been  so  good  as  to  find  me  is  a  real  help. 
And  what  with  Tommy  off  my  hands,  and  poo:  | 
Myra  gone,  we're  getting  on  finely.     And  how  i- 
Tommy,  ma'am  ?    They  tell  me  below-stairs  a.- 1 
hc'vo  grown  maiTclous,  bless  'im." 

"  Oh,   he's  very  v  ell,   Mrs.  Cray,  rnd  very  | 
happy.     Did  you  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  was  wishing  to  take  the  lib- 1 
evty  to  do  so.     I  suppose  you've  heard  of  my  lo>; 
ma'am  ?  " 

"  Your  loss  ?— no  !  " 

"  ily  poor  sou,  ma'am — my  Joel !     He's  gor.e  I 
away." 

"  What !  left  Priestley  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am.     He  couldn't  abide  the  pla«  I 
now  his  cousin's   buried,  and  his  whole  niin<i 
seems  bent  on  finding  out  the  man  that's  wrongcJ  | 
her.    He  wanted  to  marry  her  himself,  you  sco, 
ma'am,  and  I  do  believe  it's   gone   to  turn  liis  | 
head."  (Here  Mrs.  Cray's  canvas  apron  goes  up, 
as  usual,  to  her  eyes.)    "  The  last  words  he  savs  I 
to  me  was,  '  Mother,  I'll  find  him,'  he  says,  '  mi 
I'll  kill  him,'  he  says,  '  if  I  travels  the  whck  | 
world  over  for  it,'  he  says." 

"  Oh,  but  you  mustn't  believe  all  that  people  I 
say  when  they  are  in  such  grief  as  that,  Mr;. 
Cray.  When  jour  son  is  able  to  reason  a  litil? 
more  calmly,  he  will  'never  think  of  doing  an?  I 
thing  so  wicked.  You  may  rest  assured  thatj 
whoever  wronged  poor  Myra  will  not  be  per- 1 
mitted  to  go  unpunished:  but  the  punishment | 
must  be  left  in  God's  hands." 

"That's  just  what  I  says  to  Joel,  ma'am.  1 1 


ERIC  KEIR'S  PIIOTOGRAPir. 


01 


ing  it  is  that  a  babv 
such  a  word  1 " 

1  be  very  unploasaij; 
call  my  brother  Lv 

ia  McrJaunt  ia  In; 

asc,"  saya  Irene,  u  \ 
carry  hiu  off  to  btJ. 
he  sigha.     Slic  set.- 1 
)  to  bear  the  bruu  | 
lillocs. 
)e(lroon)-door  with  a  I 

[rs.  Cruy'a  waithig  a  \ 
an  speak  to  you." 
in  to  show  her  iuio  | 
come  back  and  takj 
minute  Irene  ia  cw- 

re  any  thing  I  can  do 

n.    The  washing  a- 1 

id  me  is  a  real  help. 
my  hands,  and  poor 
finely.     And  howii 

I  me  below-stairs  a:| 

s  'im." 

its.  Cray,  end  very 

;ak  to  me  ?  " 

ihing  to  take  the  lib- 

i'vc  heard  of  my  lo-s. 


ny  Joel !     He's  gone 


In't  abide  the  plawl 
ind  bis  whole  niinJl 
2  man  that's  wronged 
icr  himself,  you  ece, 
'a  gone  to  turn  liis  | 
avas  apron  goes  up, 
le  last  words  he  sajs 
him,'  he  says, '  nnJ 
travels  the  wholi;| 

lieve  all  that  peoii!; 

grief  as  that,  Mrs.  | 
le  to  reason  a  littk 

think  of  doing  any  I 
ly  rest  assured  that 
ra  will  not  be  pet[ 
but  the  punisUmeslj 

to  Joel,  ma'am.   U 


ii»yii  'Joel,'  says  I,  '  whoever  done  it,  Us  no  busi- 
ness of  youni ;  and  men  will  ba  men,'  I  says, 
'  and  the  girl  was  (juito  ablo  to  take  care  of  her- 
seir.'  But  you  Jon't  know  hiiii,  what  Joel  is, 
lua'ara.  lie's  as  strong  in  his  will  as  a  lielephant, 
and  you  might  turn  a  posty  sooner.  So  that  I 
foci  whenever  they  two  meet  there'll  be  bloodshed 
anil  murder,  and  perhaps  worse.  And  I  sha'n't 
never  bo  easy  till  he  conies  baek  again  I  " 

"  Where  is  he  uow,  Mrs.  Cray  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  knows,  ma'am,  for  I'm  sure  I 
don't.  lie  went  away  last  Thursday  wc"k,  and 
I've  seen  nothin'  of  hira  since.  And  it's  hard 
for  his  mother  to  be  left  in  this  way,  and  she  a 
widJer,  with  five  littl'uns  to  work  for,  and  her 
poor  niece  in  the  church-yard.  It's  very  hard ; 
very  hard,  indeed." 

"  ]lut  I  thought  you  aaid  you  were  getting  on 
80  well,  Mrs.  Cray  ?  " 

"  So  I  am,  ma'ara — thanks  to  you  and  the 
washing.  And  it'a  a  real  relief  to  have  poor 
ilyra  laid  comfortable  underground,  and  to  feel 
she'll  never  want  for  nothin'  again.  And  that's 
what  brings  me  up  here  this  evening,  ma'am.  I've 
been  reddling  up  the  house  a  bit,  and  turning  out 
her  boxes  to  see  what  would  make  up  for  the 
poor  children,  and  I  came  across  a  few  lettc.s 
ard  bits  of  things  of  hers  as  I'm  sure  I  never 
know  she  had — .she  kep'  'c.n  so  close." 

"  .Vre  they  of  any  importance  to  the  child  ?  " 

"  That  I  can't  say,  ma'am,  being  no  scholard 
myself;  but,  ua  you've  provided  so  handsome  for 
Tommy,  I  thought  as  you'd  the  best  right  to  sec 
t'.icm,  and  come  to  your  own  decision  whether 
they  should  be  burned  or  not." 

"  Thank  you.  I  think  you  are  right.  Have 
you  got  them  with  you  ?  " 

Hero  Mrs.  Cray  produces  a  red-cotton  hand- 
Ijercbief  from  under  her  shawl,  which,  unfoldeu, 
discloses  a  small  packet  tied  up  in  part  of  a  dirty 
old  newspaper. 

"  There  they  are,  ma'am,  just  as  I  found  them 
in  Myra's  box.  There's  a  bit  of  hair  among  the 
papers,  and  a  glove — which  it  looks  to  me  like  a 
gentleman's  glove,  but  there's  no  saying,  and 
gloves  ain't  o  proof  if  there  wore.  So,  not  being 
able  to  road  the  writing,  I  didn't  disturb  them 
more  than  necessary,  for  I  guessed  you'd  like  to 
have  'em  aa  they  was — and  taking  such  a  hin- 
terest  as  you  do  in  Tommy,  and  they  being  of 
value  perhaps  to  the  child — which  of  courso  I 
shall  ba  very  willing  to  leave  them  with  you, 
ma'am — for  being  no  scholard,  as  I  saya  be- 
fore^" 

As  Mrs.  Cray  stands  there,   repeating  the 


.same  sentences  again  and  again,  anil  funililiug 
the  dirty  packet  about  in  her  hands,  a  light 
breaks  in  upon  Irene.  T'.c  letters  are  to  be 
paid  for.  And  she  is  quite  ready  to  pay  for  them, 
for  her  interest  and  curiosity  are  alike  aroused 
by  what  the  laundress  has  told  her,  arid  she  hopes 
the  papers  may  prove  of  use  in  tracing  the  par- 
entage of  the  adopted  child, 

"Oh!  certainly,  I  quite  understand,"  she  ex- 
claims eagerly,  as  her  hand  dives  into  her  pocket 
for  her  purse;  "  and  I'm  sure  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you,  Mrs.  Cray,  for  the  trouble  you  have  taken 
in  bringing  them  up  to  me."  And  thoreupou 
she  seizes  on  the  letters,  and  transfers  instead  a 
sovereign  to  the  woman's  palm — an  exehango 
which  po  entirely  meets  Mrs.  Cray's  vic;\vs  of 
justice,  that  it  is  several  minutes  before  Irene  can 
stop  her  torrent  of  thanks,  and  get  her  well  out 
of  the  room  again. 

It  is  dusk  now,  for  the  autumn  cveninga  close 
in  fast,  and  .she  rings  for  candles,  and,  full  of  ex- 
pectation, sits  down  to  inspect  the  contenla  of 
the  packet  she  has  bought.  She  is  so  deeply  in- 
terested in  this  case  -so  sentimentally  regretful 
still  over  the  memory  of  poor  Myra — so  anxiou.H 
that  her  child  should  not  be  loft  entirely  depend- 
ent on  herself  for  a  friend.  So  she  draw3  her 
chair  close  in  to  the  table,  and  leans  both  her 
arms  upon  it,  and  bends  her  head  down  to  the 
light,  as  people  do  who  arc  about  to  enter  on  a 
task  that  engrosses  all  their  minds.  When  she 
has  cast  away  the  dirty  string,  and  still  dirtier 
outside  paper,  she  comes  upon  a  small  bundle  of 
letters,  or  rather  notes,  in  number  about  six,  and 
which,  to  judge  from  two  or  three  specimens  se- 
lected at  random,  do  not  appear  at  first  sight  to 
be  likely  to  prove  worth  a  sovereign  vested  in  the 
interests  of  Tommy. 

"Dear  Myra:  Don't  expect  me  to-morrow. 
It  ia  impossible  I  can  come.  The  bill  shall  bo 
paid  next  week.      Yours  ever,  E.  H." 

"  Dear  M.  :  I  shall  be  over  on  Friday  at  six. 
Never  mind  dinner.  Shall  dine  before  starting. 
I  ordered  in  six  dozen  of  claret  yesteixlay.  Car. 
riagc  was  paid. 

"  Yours  affectionately,  E.  U." 

"  Dearest  M.  :  You  are  a  thorough  woman. 

How  could  I  be  at  F when  S v.aa  twenty 

miles  the  other  way  ?  You  will  see  me  some  timo 
nest  week.  Get  the  dress  by  all  means.  I  in- 
close check.  Yours  truly,  E.  K." 

When  Irene  has  deciphered  these  and  a  few 


02 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


I    ? 


A' 


1 1«  j8  il  ' 


Dthors,  very  siniilar  ia  character,  she  pniiscs  for  a. 
moment's  tlioiijiht. 

"Wliiit  do  Ihcy  tell  her?  I'osliively  noth- 
ing but  w)iiit  hIic  knew  belorr..  It  is  evident 
thiit  tlie  vri'er  \v;h  not  ii  [lii.sHJn;,'  .■icfiiiiiintiiiiee 
of  the  dead  twirl's,  but  some  one  wiio  considered 
her  lionie  us  his,  and  lield  li'insclf  rcsiMinsibie  for 
her  exp-^nditiire ;  witliout  dou'.t,  tlr,-  fiitliur  of 
her  cliiiJ — tlie  Hamilton  of  wliom  Myrii  li;id 
spolten  to  lior." 

Irene  tiinista  tlie  letters  to  one  side  indii;- 
nantly,  almost  with  disgust.  iShc  fancies  she  can 
trace  the  fe'e'fish  nature  of  the  writer  in  every 
line;  she  thinks  she  would  not  care  to  stand  in 
that  man's  place  at  the  present  moment,  and  only 
wishes  she  could  find  some  clew  by  which  to  trace 
him,  and  make  him  aware  of  the  mischief  and 
misery  he  has  wrought. 

Having  disposed  of  the  letters,  she  next  takes 
up  the  glove — a  gentleman's  glove,  as  the  laun- 
dress had  observed,  but  of  no  value  in  tracing 
the  identity  of  its  owner — and  the  envelope  that 
contains  the  lock  of  hair. 

It  is  a  soft,  wavy  piece  of  dark-brown  hair, 
the  counterpart  of  that  which  grows  on  Tommy's 
head,  and  Irene  experiences  a  strange  sensation 
of  mingled  admiration  and  dislike  as  she  takes  it 
in  her  hand.  Besides  these,  the  packet  contains 
nothing  but  a  gold  locket,  broken  and  empty ;  a 
heap  of  witherc'l  flowers,  chiefly  of  violets,  and 
one  of  those  highly-ornamental  and  strictly-use- 
less ivory-backed  prayer-books  which  arc  manu- 
factured for  young  gentlemen  to  present  to  young 
ladies,  and  which  Myra  was  very  unlikely  to  have 
received  from  any  friend  in  her  own  class  of  life. 
Irene  opens  the  prayer-book  to  see  if  thei'c  is  any 
inscription  in  it,  but  the  title-page  is  guiltless  of 
the  indiscretion  of  revealing  its  donor's  name. 
It  is  blank  and  silent  and  inscrutable  as  the  past 
appears  likely  to  be  upon  the  subject  of  her 
adopted  child.  She  turns  over  the  leaves  me- 
chanically and  with  an  air  of  disappointment.  At 
the  service  for  the  solemnization  of  marriage  the 
page  is  folded  down.  Poor  Myra !  how  often  may 
she  not  have  glanced  at  the  holy  words,  which 
bore  no  sweet  memories  for  her,  with  longing 
tears !  As  Irene's  hand  shakr",  the  little  volume 
shakes,  and  somfthing — an  oval  piece  of  card- 
board apparently — falls  loosely  from  it  on  the 
table.  She  seizes  and  turns  it  uppermost.  It 
is  a  photographed  face,  cut  from  an  ordinary 
carte  dc  visite,  which,  from  its  size  and  appearance, 
has  evidently  once  been  encased  in  the  broken 
locket — the  face  of  a  man,  which  she  holds  for- 
ward eagerly  to  the  light. 


"Corf  in  liaivfu  !  it  id  llml  «f  Erie  Kcir  /" 

In  her  anxiety  to  examine  the  portrait,  htt( 
has  risen  to  her  feet,  and  now  standj",  quivcrin; 
in  every  limb,  and  gazing  at  it  ns  thougli  ^\,, 
were  spcdbound.  There  can  be  no  niistaki— 1 
appears  younger  here  than  when  she  knew  liin, 
there  is  less  hair  about  the  face — less  th(iiii:h: 
upon  the  brow — a  look  of  more  insouciance  about 
the  mouth — but  the  eyes,  the  nose,  the  co.itour 
of  the  countenance,  are  the  sr.me ;  there  canU 
no  do\ibt  but  that  it  was  taken  from  himself. 

"  Rut    how — hoia    can   his  photograph  liavt 
found  its  way  among  Myra's  poor  possessions) 
■\Vliy  should  it  be  mixed  up  with  these  relies  of 
the  base  and  selfi^:h  lover  who  betrayed  her  int:o- 1 
ceni;e  ?  " 

The  deadly  sickness  that   rises  to  her  liei-; 
makes  answer  to  tue  question. 

"The  initials  E.  II.  stand  for  Eric  llamiltOD: 
he  is  the  man,  at  whose  door  all  the  suffering  fli; 
has  witnessed  must  be  laid  ;  his  child,  whom  she  I 
has  adopted  as  her  o'.vn,  lies  sleeping  at  this  m- 
ment  under  her  protection." 

As  the  reality  of  the  thought  strikes  home  to  | 
her,   Irene  lets   the    photograph   fall   from  he: 
hands,  and  sinks  back  upon  the  chair  which  she  | 
had  quitted. 

Eric  Hamilton  Keir  and  Myra  Cray.     For  a  | 
few  moments,  all   that   she   does,  or  thinks  of 
doing,  is  to  repeat  those  two  names  conjunctively  I 
over  and  over  again,  until  the  syllables  lose  a!! 
significance  for  her. 

The  effect  is  to  harden  her  heart  and  cause  it  I 
to  feel  quite  dead  and  cold.     Presentlj  she  hears  | 
a  sound  outside  in  the  hall,  and,  springing  up, 
pushes   all  the  sad   mementos  of  poor  Myra's 
disgrace  together  in  one  heap,  and,   thrusting  I 
them  into  the  writing-table  drawer,  turns  the  kcj 
upon  them.    And  then  she  leaves  the  room,  almoit 
as  though  she  were  in  a  dream,  and,  still  dream- 
ing, encounters  her  sister-in-law  upon  the  stairs. 

"Are  you  not  coming  down  into  the  drawing- 
room  ?  "  says  Isabella.     "  I  think — that  is,  I  am  I 
not  sure,  of  course — but  I  believe  that  my  brother 
is  expecting  you.      Coffee  has  been  in  for  half  an  | 
hour." 

"Don't  wait  for  me,"  Irene  replies,  in  a  low  | 
voice,  as  she  toils  in  a  languid,  purposeless  mar,- 
nci-  up  the  staircase. 

As  she  gains  her  bedroom-door,  Phoebe  ap- 
pears upon  the  landing  from  her  own  apartment- 1 

"Oh!  please,  ma'am,  won  7  you  just  step  in  | 
and  look  at  Master  Tommy.    He  do  look  so  beau- 
tiful in  his  sleep." 


!l:.sr^-; 


A   MENTAL  WARFARE. 


93 


<:/ £.')■!(•  K<ir."' 


rises  to  lier  licTr; 


c  replies,  in  a  low 
1,  purposeless  mar.- 

a-door,  Phccbc  ap- 
er  own  apartment. 
J  you  just  step  in  | 
le  do  look  so  beau- 


"No,  no  !  I  can't.  I  don't  wijji  to  see  liiin. 
I  don't  care  about  seeing  liitu,"  replies  her  mis- 
tresH,  in  tones  so  unusually  sharp  and  decisive, 
that  Pliiebe,  bewildered,  retreats  to  her  nursery 
unala,  leeliug  that  somehow  she  has  made  a  mis- 
take. 

Irene  enters  her  own  room  uud  paces  uj) 
and  down  in  the  dark,  not  fast,  but  restlessly. 

"  Myra  Cray !  "  so  run  her  thoughts,  "  a  low- 
bora,  uneducated  girl,  whom  he  was  base  enough 
to  bctr!\y  and  desert,  and  then  he  came  to  me — 
to  me — and  dared  to  trifle  witli  my  airections 
too!" 

The  knowledge  of  the  similarity  between  their 
ci«e3  should  make  her  soften  toward  Myni's 
memory,  but  it  does  not ;  the  slioek  of  the  dis- 
covery has  occurred  too  latjly.  As  yet  she  can 
I  only  think  of  her  as  of  one  who  (however  briefly) 
I  held  the  heart  she  was  unable  to  secure.  And  she 
is  impotently  weak  to  cope  with  a  feeling  which 
siie  knows  to  be  unwortliy  of  her  ;  and  the  whole 
world  loses  favor  in  her  eyes  in  consequence  of 
I  her  own  defalcation. 

As  she  is  still  walking  up  md  down  the  room, 
I  trying  hard  to  stamp  down  the  demons  of  envy 
and  jealousy  and  revenge  that  are  strugglng  for 
supremacy   in  her  bosom,   Colonel    Mordaunt's 
I  deferential  tap  for  admittance  is  heard  against 
the  door.     It  is  an  unfortimate  moment  for  him 
in  which  to  appear  before  her ;  we  are  best  left 
to  conduct  these  mental  warfares  by  oursclres ; 
and  there  are  moments  in  life  in  which  the  atten- 
tions of  our   best  and   dearest  friends   irritate 
instead  of  soothing  us.     And  all  Colonel  Mor- 
Idaunt's  attentions,  however   kindly  meant,  are 
conducted  on  that  soothing  stroke -you -down- 
gently  principle  which   is   so   trying  to   accept 
I  patiently  when  every  nerve  is  quivering  with  cx- 
I  citemcnt. 

"  Why,  my  darling,"  he  commences,  "  all  in 
I  the  dark  !  What  can  you  find  to  amuse  you  up 
I  here .' " 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,  thank  you,  I  don't  feel  in- 
[clined  for  the  light  just  how — I'm  thinking." 

"  And  what  can  the  little  woman  be  thinking 
I  about  that  requires  both  gloom  and  solitude  ? 
I  Nothing  unpleasant,  I  hope,  Irene." 
"  IIow  should  it  be  ?  " 

"Then  como  down  to  the  drawing-room,  my 
I  darling.  Isabella  is  waiting  till  you  appear  to 
I  pour  out  the  coffee." 

"  I  would  much  rather  not  go ;  why  can't  she 
|t»ke  it  alone  ?  " 

"  What  reason  can  you  have  for  not  joining 
Iher?" 


"Only  that  1  feel  a  little— a  little  hipped  to- 
night, and  woi.Id  rather  remain  liy  mysulf 

'•////)//•(/.'  Why,  what  on  earth  can  you  have 
to  make  yoii  feel  liii)i)ed  ?  Has  any  thing  gone 
wrong  ? "' 

"  I  have  already  said  no  to  that  (|uestiiin. 
Hut  is  it  absolutely  necessary,  in  order  to  feel 
low,  that  we  should  bo  sull'eiing  in  the  present  ? 
Have  we  no  past  to  return  at  times  upon  us  '?  " 

Irene  forgets,  as  she  says  tliis  sentence,  how 
inneli  conliilence  she  repo.-ed  in  her  husl)and  be- 
fore marriage;  and  as  it  escapes  her,  and  the 
remembrance  returns,  slie  grows  still  mure  impa- 
tient with  herself  and  him, 

"  I  had  hope<l,"  he  observes  (and  the  obser- 
vation alone,  in  her  present  condition,  eanies 
offense  with  it),  "  that  your  past  was  done  away 
with  forever,  Irene." 

"  I  never  gave  you  cause  to  hope  so,"  slie 
retorts  sharply,  as  he  turns  away  in  silence  to 
leave  the  room.  In  a  moment  she  has  seen  her 
evror  and  sprung  after  him. 

"Forgive  me,  Philip,  I  am  in  a  horrid  temper! 
But  when  you  talk  of  my  jiast  as  gcme  forever, 
you  forget  that  I  have  lost  my  father  and  mother 
and — and — " 

"  There,  there,  darling  !  It  is  I  who  should 
ask  your  forgiveness  ;  I  was  a  brute  to  say  what 
I  did.  But  I  have  been  hoping  I  had  made  you 
happy,  Irene." 

"  And  so  you  have — very  hap])y  ! "'  she  re- 
turns with  a  sort  of  hysterical  gasp.  "  Let  us 
say  no  more  about  it,  but  go  down  to  Isabella." 
And  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  she  is, 
to  all  outward  appearance,  much  like  her  ui-ual 
self.  She  goes  to  bed,  however,  sleeps  brokenly, 
and  rises  in  the  morning  unrefrc.shed.  The  reve- 
lation of  the  night  before  has  made  no  difference 
in  her  future  prospects,  nor  can  it  influence  in 
any  way  her  present  action? ;  but  it  has  revived 
.all  her  bitterest  feelings  with  regard  to  Eric 
Keir's  behavior  to  herself — feelings  which  she 
had  hoped  were  long  since  laid  to  rest,  because 
the  tame  existence  which  she  is  leading  affords 
no  ojjportunity  of  arousing  them.  But  the  dull, 
leaden  weight  which,  alternated  with  fierce  moods 
of  scorn  and  irony,  once  rendered  life  a  torture 
to  her,  has  settled  down  upon  her  heart  again, 
and  disposes  her  to  feci  hard  and  cold  to  all  man- 
kind, until,  while  she  is  dressing,  a  certain  chubby 
hand  knocks  uncertainly  upon  her  bedroom-door. 
She  knows  well  the  faint,  broken  sound  his  dimpled 
knuckles  make,  and  generally  flies  to  the  door  to 
open  it  herself.  But,  to-day  her  brows  contract, 
and  she  shrinks  backward  as  though  the  mere 


■. '1 


04 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


!   i" 


V  ;h 


I     ''I 

■  m 


■I  •     *'■:    ii 


''Hjj-  il 


i 


knowledge  of  liis  presence  tliere  could  give  licr 
pain. 

"  If  you  please,  iiia'iim,  it's  Muster  Tommy," 
fays  rinebe's  voice  from  the  outside. 

"  I  can't  sec  him  tbi.s  morning,  Phc'be.  Li't 
him  run  'ii  tlie  garden  until  wo  come  down." 

"  I  want  00 — I  want  oo,"  says  Tommy,  ixs  he 
kicks  at  tlu;  bedroom-door. 

"  Are  you  going  to  let  that  child  kick  all  the 
paint  off  the  paneling  ?  "  shouts  her  husband 
from  his  dressing-room. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  lie's  been  in  the  garden 
already,  and  he's  got  a  most  beautiful  ruse  for 
you — haven't  you.  Master  Tommy  ?  " 

"  Let  me  in !  I  want  oo,"  repeats  the  pro- 
Uyi: 

Then  she  advances  slowly  and  unlocks  the 
door,  and  admits  the  child  before  rhtt'bo  can 
follow  him,  and  finds  herself  standing  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  room,  gazing  with  her  largo,  hungry 
eyes  at  the  atom  of  humanity  whose  existence 
vexes  her  so  sorely. 

"  What  do  you  want,  Tommy  ? "  she  com- 
mences coldly. 

"  A  rose  for  Tommy,  mamn  a — a  booful  rose," 
he  lisps  as  ho  presents  the  flower. 

She  does  not  offer  to  accept  it,  on  tiio  con- 
trary,  she  turns  away. 

"  Don't  call  me  mamma,"  she  says,  quickly. 

The  urchin  looks  astonished,  and  then  pouts 
his  lipa.  Children  are  ready  judges;  lie  recog- 
nizes the  injustice  and  waywardness  of  her  new- 
mood  at  once. 

"  I  go,  Phoebe,"  he  utters  plaintively  in  re- 
monstrance to  the  change.  Irene  looks  round — 
sees  the  dewy  mouth  drooping  at  both  comers — 
catches  the  deprecating  glance  of  the  violet  eyes 
— becomes  awarn  of  her  barbarity  in  a  moment, 
and  flics  to  fold  the  friendless,  fatherless  little 
creature  in  her  arms. 

"  As  if  'twas  your  fault,"  she  murmurs,  press- 
ing her  lips  upon  his  curly  head.  "  Poor  lamb — 
poor  unhappy,  deserted  little  child !  0  Tommy ! 
ho  has  left  us  both — he  has  left  us  both — we  will 
be  all  the  world  to  one  another." 

The  mistresii  of  Fen  Court  is  very  thoughtful 
for  some  days  after  this  little  episode,  and  only 
like  herself  by  fits  and  starts,  though,  strange  to 
say,  no  one  notices  the  change,  except  it  be 
Oliver  Ralston.  But  our  most  intimate  friends 
arc  often  the  last  to  read  what  is  passing  in  our 
inmost  minds.  We  are  suffering,  perhaps,  so 
keenly  that  we  scarcely  dare  to  raise  our  eyes 
lest  they  should  blurt  out  our  secret,  and  imagine 


every  one  wo  meet  must  read  it  written  on  our 
brow,  i..  characters  of  fire ;  and  yot  those  wiih 
whom  we  live  go  on  consvdiing  us  day  after  dav 
with  reference  to  the  weekly  expenditure,  or  the 
servants'  peccadilloc.-",  or  the  children's  sprii);; 
dresses,  as  if,  for  the  time  being,  such  matters  iuj 
not  lost  their  significance  for  us  almost  as  mm!, 
as  though  we  had  jjassed  beyond  them.  Yet  it 
is  not  so  with  strangers,  unless,  indeed,  we  liap. 
pen  to  be  actors  and  actresses  of  the  first  rank, 
They  meet  us,  and  observe  to  one  another  aftor. 
ward,  "  What  is  that  man's  perplexity  ?  Wiia: 
cause  can  that  woman  have  for  weeping  ?  "  Ani 
so  Oliver  Ralston  discovers  th  it  Irene  is  not  ?.,  | 
cheerful  as  before,  and  taxes  1  er  with  it  in  liu 
rough,  hearty  way. 

"  Dreaming  again,  Irene !     '.Vhat  is  up  ?  " 

"  When  you  can  explain  to  me,  Oliver,  lioV 
much  is  comprehended  in  that  mystical  terra, 
perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  inform  you." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean !  Why  are  you  •<, 
down  in  the  mouth  1 " 

"The  natural  reaction  after  so  much  dissipa- 
tion." 

"  Fiddle-de-dee  !     Excuse   my   rudeness,  but 
you  know  fiddh-dc-dcc  is  the  only  word  to  suit  I 
your  explanation.     !?criously,  though,  is   it  any  | 
thing  in  which  I  can  help  you  ?  " 

"Not at  all,  Oliver!  thanks  all  the  same— ex- 
cept, indeed,  by  not  commenting  upon  what  yoi: 
are  pleased  to  call  my  being  '  dov  n  in  the  moutli.' 

"  But  may  I  tell  you  to  what  I  think  it'.- 1 
due  ?  " 

"  Certainly !  if  you  can — which  I  know  you  | 
can't." 

"  You  are  sorry  you  ever  adopted  that  little 
brat.  Tommy  5 " 

She  grows  scarlet. 

"  Indeed  I'm  not.     What  should  make  you  I 
think  so  ? "     Has   your  uncle  been  saying  any 
thing  against  him  ?  " 

"  He  never  mentions  the  subject  to  me.     But  1 
I  have  seen  you  looking  at  the  child  scores  ol 
times  lately,  and  can  read  it  in  your  face." 

"  Acute  observer  !  but  wrong  for  once  in  bi- 1 
life.  I  wouldn't  part  with  Tommy  for  any  thirg  | 
in  the  world." 

"  Not  if  I  found  his  relations  for  you  ?  " 

"  He  has  no  relations,"   hurriedly — "  he  be- 1 
longs  to  me  entirely — he  will  never  be  taken 
away.     But  please  let  us  talk  of  something  else,  | 
Oliver.    Have  you  seen  Dr.  Robertson  again." 

"  How  artfully  you  change  the  subject ! — Yes :  I 
I  saw  Robertson  this  morning ;  and  it's  all  but 
settled."  ^..^v.. 


OLIVERS  NEW  ESTABLISHMENT. 


05 


r  HO  much  dissipa- 


should  make  you 
been  saying  m 


18  for  you  ?  " 
urricdly — "he  be- 1 
\  never  be  taken 
of  something  chc,  ] 
ibertson  again." 
he  subject ! — Yes :  I 
; ;  and  it's  all  but 


"  With  Philip's  r  nsent  ?  " 
"  (Vitainly.  Ho  has  come  round  to  think  it 
will  be  tlic  bos';  thiiif^  in  the  world  tor  mo.  And 
go  ii  will-  I  ''^^li  "^''^  sense  enough  to  see  that. 
TluTO  will  not  be  much  temptation  for  mo  to  dis- 
sipatc  ill  Fenton.  Tlic  only  drawl)ack  U,  that  I 
am  afiiiid  I  nhiiU  not  get  so  much  practi<'i;  as  I 
ought  to  have." 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  practice.     To  load  a 
(iiiiet  life  i.-?  the  most  important  thing.     And  I 
nromiso  you  shall  operate  on  mc  whenever  occa- 
I  sion  calls  for  it." 

"  What  an  opening  !     I'll  have  both  your  logs 

I  oR"  before  the  year's  out.     Hut  really,  Irene,  it 

will  be  a  great  thing  for  mc  to  live  so  near  you." 

"  It  will  be  perfectly  delightful ;    for.   ciitrc 

I  nous,  though  poor  Isabella   is  c.ttroraely  good, 

she  is  a  very  stupid  companion.     And  you  must 

come  over  and  dine  with  us  every  day.     Now, 

I  won't  you  ?  " 

"  And  leave  Robertson  to  look  after  his  five 

I  parishes  alone  ?     I'm  afraid  he  won't  consent  to 

Itliat.    Rut  I  must  keep  a  iiorso,  and  dare  say  I 

shall  often  be   able   to   take  Feu  Court  in    my 

I  rounds." 

"Are  you  going  to  live  with  Dr.  Robertson  ?  " 
"  No ;  he  h.as  a  wife  and  large  family :  so  I 
I  should  prefer  not  to  do  so.     But  I  can  have  two 
I  rooms  in  a  farm-house  close  by — very  nice  ones." 
"  And  we  will  furnish  them  for   you  ;  that 

I  will  be  charming.     You  have  no  idea  how  pretty 

II  shall  make  thera.  I  shall  send  you  over  tablc- 
I'lncn  and  crockery  and  every  thing  from  the 
•  Court.  We  have  much  more  than  we  can  use. 
lit  will  be  the  greatest  fun  in  the  world  getting 
[your  rooms  ready." 

"You  are  much  too  good  to  me." 

"  And  when  you  have  taken  possession,  you 
[shall  give  a  house-warming.  Isabella  and  I  will 
Igoover  in  the  pony-chaise;  and  Tommy  shall 
Irldc  his  donkey.  (By-the-way,  do  you  know  that 
ll've  bought  a  donkey  for  Tommy,  and  he  sticks 
Ion  like  a  little  brick  ?) " — ^hero  Irene  interrupts 
Ihor  rapid  delivery  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh. 

"  Why  that  sigh,  Irene  ?  " 

"  What  sigh  ?  " 

"  At  Tommy's  name  again.  Ah !  you  can't 
liieceive  me.  All  the  low  spirits  of  the  last  week 
lare  attributable  to  the  existence  of  that  wretched 
Khild." 

"  How  you  do  tease  me,  Oliver !  And  it's 
iTery  rude  to  break  off  the  conversation  in  that 
|way.  Where  was  I  ?  Oh !  yes  ;  the  upshot  is 
Ithat  we'll  all  go  and  have  afternoon  tea  at  your 
iFonton  apartments — that  is,  if  you'll  have  us." 


"  How  can  you  doubt  it?  Only  your  propo- 
sals are  sodi'lightfid,  I'm  afraid  thoy  are  too  good 
to  coino  tiiio.  What  will  Uncle  IMiillp  .«ay  to 
them  ?  " 

"Just  what  I  do.  Hut  I  will  go  and  sound 
liiniat  onoo."  And  olV  runs  Irouu  in  .-oarch  of 
her  husband.  Shu  finds  Colonel  Mordaunt  in  a 
beaming  humor,  and  every  thing  goes  right.  Ho 
considers  the  offered  appdiutiiicnt  as  good  an 
opening  as  a  young  man  in  Oliver's  position 
could  expect  to  obtain  ;  acknowledges  ho  should 
like  to  have  him  near  Fen  Court ;  a'^rccs  heartily 
to  every  suggestion  with  respect  to  furnishing 
the  apartments ;  and  even  mentions  a  certain 
strong  hunting-colj  now  standing  in  his  stables 
as  very  likely  to  bo  his  own  particular  contribu- 
tion to  his  nephew's  new  establishment. 

"  And  so  you  see,  Oliver,  (hat's  all  right,"  is 
Irene's  comfortable  conclusion  as  the  last  clause 
has  boon  discussed  and  provided  for ;  and  then 
follows  a  niorrior  evening  than  tliey  have  spent 
for  some  days  past :  for  Iren<j  catches  the  infec- 
tion of  her  husband's  good-iiumor  and  Oliver's 
content,  and  miraculously  recovering  her  voice, 
which  has  been  hora  de  comhat  for  at  least  a  week, 
sits  up  to  a  much  later  hour  than  usual,  singing 
snatches  of  old  ballads  that  were  famous  before 
she  was  born,  and  interrupting  herself  every  sec- 
ond minute  to  twist  round  on  the  mu.sie-stool, 
and  make  some  little  harmless  joke  at  the  e.K- 
pcnse  of  Oliver's  future  meiuif/e. 

So  they  all  go  to  bed  pretty  well  tired  out, 
and  my  heroine  does  not  wake  until  her  accus- 
tomed hour  on  the  following  morning.  The  first 
thing  of  which  she  is  conscious  is  that  Colonel 
Mordaunt  is  already  up  and  dressed. 

"  Why,  Philip  " — sitting  up  in  bed,  and  rub- 
l)ing  her  sleepy  eyes  —  "  is  that  really  you  ? 
Have  I  overslept  myself?  " 

"  I  think  not.  It  is  only  just  eight.  I  roso 
rather  earlier  than  usual." 

"  Why  ?  Were  you  disturbed  ?  or  is  there  a 
meet  to-day?  By-tho-way,  Philip,  were  there 
carts  in  the  night  ?  " 

"  Carts,  my  darling  ?  " 

"Yes!  scraping  over  the  gravel.  I  fancied 
I  heard  them  ;  or  perhaps  I  dreamed  it.  I  was 
very  sleepy. — Are  you  going  away  ? " 

"  I  shall  be  back  in  a  minute,"  says  her  husband 
hastily ;  but  several  minutes  elapse,  and  he  doen 
not  return,  so  Irene  rises,  and  proceeds  to  dress 
herself.  Slie  is  just  about  to  ring  for  Phoebe  to 
assist  in  the  completion  of  her  toilet,  when  she  is 
attracted  by  a  loud  roar  from  somewhere  bclow- 
stairs.     Tommy  has  evidently  come  to  grief. 


■n 


% 


tl 


00 


'NO  INTENTIONS." 


I     I 


iii 


\  m 


f  i-p 


4ir{:= 


i  ii 


m' 


"  Oh !  tlicy  have  lot  him  full  and  hurt  him- 
flcif,"  bIic  czc'luiiii.s  nluuil,  uU  the  luateiual  Bulici- 
tiiJc  Avitli  which  her  bifast  id  ludeu  finiiif^iu}; 
into  action  directly  a  cull  id  iimde  upon  it  j  "  they 
have  lit  the  luiliy  full ! "  and  rushed  to  the 
door. 

"  riueijc  !  "  Tliere  id  no  answer  ;  but  she 
fancies  a  sli^lit  hustle  id  goin|^  on  in  tlie  hall, 
and  henrs,  altove  the  crying  of  the  ehilil,  a  con- 
fused and  angry  murmur,  as  of  voices  engaged  in 
argument. 

"I'luebc!  I'ha-be!  where  are  you?  Dring 
Master  Tommy  here !  "  she  exclaims  ogain,  as 
she  leans  over  the  bunistcrs :  and  then  a  diver- 
sion is  created  and  a  movement  made  in  her  di- 
rection, and  riitt-bc,  with  the  boy  still  whimper- 
ing in  her  arms,  and  Colonel  Mordaunt  bringing 
up  the  rear,  appears  upon  the  staircase. 

•'Oh,  is  he  really  hurt?"  begins  Irene,  anx- 
iously, as  she  perceives  the  guard  of  honor. 

"My  darling,  there  is  nothing  the  matter. 
Pray  don't  distress  yourself,"  replies  the  colonel. 

"  Tlien,  why  do  you  come  up,  too  ?  And  how 
did  it  happen? — Did  he  full  down  the  kitchen- 
stairs,  Pha-bc  ?  You  know  I  have  strictly  for- 
bidden you  to  take  him  there." 

"  lie  didn't  fall  down  the  kitchen  -  stairs, 
ma'am,"  replies  Pha-bc,  with  a  very  purscd-up 
mouth. 

"How  did  you  do  it,  darling?"  demands 
Irene,  of  the  child,  now  safely  in  her  arms. 

"  Naughty  ooraan,"  lisps  Tommy,  half  dis- 
posed to  cry  afresh  at  the  mere  recollection. 

"  My  dear  Irene,  how  absurd  of  you  to  ques- 
tion an  infant  of  that  age !  As  if  he  could  possi- 
bly tell  any  thing  that  is  to  be  depended  on." 

"Why  don't  yoM  tell  me,  then  ?— How  did  it 
happen,  Phoebe  ? " 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  wasn't  exactly  present  at 
the  time,  because  I  had  gone  to — " 

"  I  consider  I  am  a  far  better  person  to  ex- 
plain matters  than  your  maid,  Irene,"  interrupts 
the  colonel,  rather  testily.  "  The  fact  is,  the 
child  was  playing  about  where  he  has  no  busi- 
ness to  be  at  all  (but,  really,  you  do  indulge  him 
to  that  extent  that  it  becomes  dangerous  even  to 
suggest  matters  might  be  amended) — " 

"  Please  go  on,  and  let  me  hear  how  the  acci- 
dent occurred." 

"  Well,  he  went  into  the  dining-room  when  it 
was — was  occupied — and — and  —  when  he  was 
told  to  go,  and  would  not  obey  (he  is  one  of  the 
most  disobedient  little  animals  I  ever  met),  he 
was  sent  out.    That's  all." 

"  Sent  out !    Did  you  strike  him,  Philip  ? " 


"  Oh !  no,  ma'am,  'twasu't  master,"  intcrpodci 
I'ha'be,  quickly. 

"  Who,  tlien  ?  " 

"  Naughty  ooman,"  explains  Tonuny. 

"  Who  dared  to  do  it  V  "  rcptuis  Irene. 

"  Well,  my  love,  il'd  really  nothing  to  niaL. 
such  a  fuss  about ;  It's  not  everybody  that  woiilj 
think  so  much  of  giving  a  tiresome  child  a  ta;i 
on  the  head  as  you  do.  And  I  dare  say  »hv 
never  tiiought  twice  of  what  she  was  doing." 

"  She ! — she  !    Not  Isabella,  siifely." 

"  Oil !  Lor,  no,  ma'am.  Miss  Mordaunt  ain ; 
out  of  her  roora  yet,"  cries  I'ha'be. 

A  thought  strikes  Irene.     The  mystery  U-.  I 
comes  clear. 

"7/(i«  QuckcU  returned i"  And  the  chanp. 
in  her  voice  as  .she  puts  the  question  is  so  paten' 
to  her  hearers  that  Colonel  Mordaunt  become 
quite  alarmed  for  what  may  follow. 

"  Yes,  yes,  dear ;  she  has.    Now  you  kno 
all.     Hut  I  am  sure  she  didn't  mean  to  ollWii 
you. — I'lia'be,  you  had  better  go,  and  toke  tic  | 
child  with  you." 

Hut  Irene  folds  the  boy  closer  in  her  ai-ms. 

"  I  can  do  without  you,  Pha  be  ;  but  I  slial!  I 
keep  Master  Tommy."    And  the  bedroom-door 
recloses  on  the  servant  oniy. 

"  And  so  that  woman  has  come  back,  nnj 
d(ircd  to  strike  my  child,"  says  Irene,  as  soon  a- 
they  find  tliemselves  alone. 

"  Pooh  !  nonsense !  my  love.  Your  chili  1 
Do  just  think  what  you  arc  saying.  And,  as  for 
daring,  I  consider  that  a  very  strange  term  for 
you  to  use  when  speaking  of  any  action,  from  so 
old  and  valued  a  friend  as  Mrs.  Queket^  is  to  luc. 
toward  so  very  recent  an  acquisition  as  that 
nameless  jtroteyi  of  yours."  The  colonel  tries  to 
speak  with  his  usual  ease  and  composure,  but  | 
the  attempt  is  a  melancholy  failure. 

"  She  has  dared  to  strike  my  child  ! "  repeat- 
his  wife,  with  a  heaving  breast. 

"  The  boy  refused  to  obey  her,  and  she  boxcJ 
his  cars.    It  was  a  very  natural  thing  to  do." 

"  It  may  be  very  natural,  but  it  shall  not  lo 
repeated." 

"  Then  you  must  teach  the  child  to  be  more  | 
obedient." 

"  I  shall  teach  him  nothing  for  that  woman's  j 
sake.    When  did  she  return  ?  " 

"  This  morning,  at  about  six.  She  prcfe;s 
traveling  by  the  night  train." 

"  It  appears  to  me  that  she  prefers  any  modi)  | 
of  action  by  which  she  can  1 1'si  .-how  off  her  in- 
solence and  the  unusual  position  she  has  been  I 
permitted  to  attain  here.    She  leaves  us  without  | 


MRS.  QUEKETT'S  RETUILV. 


07 


lister,"  intcrpoici 


prefers  any  modo 
.-how  off  her  in- 
on  she  has  been  I 
leaves  us  without 


t  momcnt'd  warning  in  order  to  liumor  her  own 
ca|irick;  and  nho  returns  in  the  sauio  ninuner, 
rtiilioiit  tlie  8li>;htost  coiiKlJerution  Cor  onr  con- 
veiiit'iice.  A  pretty  way  for  a  t*ervant  to  go  on 
in,  truly ! " 

"  Irene,  I  thouglit  this  Biibji'ct  liad  been  dis- 
ciirMod  mid  done  witli." 

•I  shall  never  have  done  with  it  wliilo  siio 
iL'iiiuiii.H  here,  and  Is  permitted  to  behave  as  she 
,1,K'^.     U  is  past  all  bearing." 

"  Well,  there  is  no  ehanee  of  her  leaving," 
lejilies  the  poor  colonel,  with  a  j^igli ;  "  .-50  the 
luDr-poet  is  cheerful." 

"  If  her  presence  here  is  a  necessary  evil,  1 
limit  bear  ii ;  but  she  shall  not  interfere  in  my 
iirlvato  affairs.  Pliilip,  I  have  borne  more  from 
liiat  woman  than  you  know  of;  and  I  tell  you, 
,  .mdidly,  were  it  not  for  your  sake,  I  would  not 
1  reniaiu  another  moment  under  the  same  roof  with 
her.  But,  0-:  she  has  really  returned,  for  which  I 
I  iin  infinitely  sorry — " 

"  Why,  you  did  not  imagine  she  was  gone  for 
L'ood,  surely,"  intrrrupts  the  colonel.  "This  is 
I  iior  homo,  and  always  has  been." 

"But  she  might  have  died,  or  something,  in 
I  t'.io  interim." 

"  Irene,  I  am  surprised  to  hear  you  sjieak  in 
;hat  ftrain." 

"  Don't  be  surprised  at  any  thing  I  say  of 
I  tlut  woman.  Nothing  could  be  too  bad  for  her. 
■  But  of  one  thing  I  am  determined.  She  shall  not 
I  strike  this  child.  And  of  that  I  shall  make  her 
I  aware  on  our  first  meeting." 

"I  advise  you  not  to  quarrel  with  her." 
"  I  shall  not  condescend  to  quarrel.     I  shall 
■imply  give  my  orders  ;  and  if  slie  doesn't  choose 
I  to  obey  them — " 
"What  then?" 
"  I  shall  appeal  to  you." 
"  And  if  I  am  powerless  ?  " 
"Why,  then — but  it  will  be  time  enough  i3 
iJeeido  what  I  shall  do  when  the  occasion  for  de- 
IciiioQ  arrives.    Meanwhile  I  shall  speak  my  mind 
|vory  plainly  to  Mrs.  Quckctt." 

"  I  advise  you  to  keep  good  friends  with  her," 
iropeats  the  colonel,  who  appears  to  his  wife  to 
Ihare  assumed  quite  a  depressed  and  craven  air 
hiace  the  night  b'>fore.  "She  is  an  estimable 
Iwoman  in  many  respects :  faithful,  honest,  and  to 
jbe  depended  on ;  but  she  makes  a  bitter  f-nemy. 
lit  will  be  far  wiser  to  have  her  on  your  side." 
Irene's  lip  curls  in  proud  contempt. 
"  Thank  you,  Philip ;  but  I  have  been  used  to 
Ichoose  my  allies  from  a  class  superior  to  that  of 
|lfr3.  Quekett.    I  have  borae  with  her  patiently 

1 


hitherto,  lint  she  has  put  me  on  my  uiettle  now  ; 
and.  If  I  die  for  it,  she  thuU  wt  »fri!:f  thii  r/iiltl 
aijuin  !  " 

"  Oh,  hush  !  "  exclaims  Colontl  Moriiaunt,  fiar- 
fully,  as  they  issue  on  the  landing  together  (the 
little  boy  still  clinging  round  Irene's  neik),  and 
eommeiiee  to  descend  the  stairea^e,  at  the  fool  ol 
which  ap|)ears  the  licusc-kceper,  proceeding  in 
state  to  her  own  npaitineiit,  and  followed  by  a 
louple  of  lueii-servants  bearing  lur  boxes. 

'•  I  liopo  I  see  you  well.  Mis.  Monluunt,"  she 
siiys,  with  a  smirk,  as  she  eiieounters  the  couple 
alioiit  hull-way  down. 

(,'olonel  Mordaunt,  who  is  as  nervous  us  a  wom- 
an, nudges  Irene  upon  the  e''jo\v. 

"  .Mr.f.  Quekett  speaks  to  you,  my  love." 

"  1  heard  her. — I  should  think  you  might 
have  given  us  some  notice  of  your  return,  (juekett. 
It  is  rather  unusual  to  take  people  by  surprise  in 
this  way." 

The  tone  in  which  she  is  spoken  to  makes 
Quekett  Hush  up  at  once,  and  her  voice  changes 
with  her  mood. 

"  I  couldn't  have  let  you  know  beforehand," 
she  replies,  rudely,  "  as  Lady  Baldwin  didn't  say 
till  yesterday  that  she  could  dispense  with  me. 
And  it's  quite  a  new  thing,  into  the  bargain,  for 
me  to  hear  that  I'm  to  account  for  all  my  comings 
and  goings  to  a  family  where  I've  lived  for — " 

"Of  course — of  course,"  interruptj  the  C(do- 
ncl,  hurriedly.  "  You  mistake  Mrs.  Mordaunt's 
meaning,  Quekett,  altogether. — Irene,  my  dear 
breakfast  is  waiting.  Had  we  not  better  go 
down  ?  " 

lie  is  terribly  afraid  of  what  may  he  coming, 
and  has  but  one  wish :  to  separate  the  combat- 
ants. But  Irene's  cup  of  wrath  is  tilled  to  the 
brim,  and  she  stands  her  ground.  AVith  Tommy 
clinging  tightly  to  her  from  pure  fear,  she  feels 
brave  enough  to  say  or  do  any  thing. 

"  One  moment,  Philip. — As  you  have  returned, 
Mrs.  Quekett,  you  and  I  had  better  understand 
each  other.  You  struck  this  child  this  morning. 
Don't  do  it  again  ! " 

"  Irene !  Irene ! "  implores  the  hapless  colonel. 

"  LonH  do  it  again  t "  pants  Mrs.  Quekett. 

"Don't  do  it  again,"  repeats  her  mistress, 
calmly.  "  I  have  adopted  him :  he  is  under  my 
protection ;  and  I  will  allow  no  one  to  correct  him 
but  myself." 

"  A  pretty  pass  things  is  come  to  I "  ex- 
claims the  house-keeper,  whose  rage  at  being  re- 
buked before  the  footmen  is  beyond  all  descrip> 
tion.  "  I  wonder  you're  not  ashamed  of  yourself, 
colonel,  to  allow  it.    A  dirty  brat,  belonging  to 


..g 


M--1 


I 

"  If 

:  i 

W 


■)8 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


Il  !■! 


.SI    k\]  i 


'i  I 


llic  Lord  knows  wlio,  nml  comin;.'  from  tlic  lowest 
lot  in  I'rit'^tli'V,  tot)c  l»roiiplit  up  liore  ami  prliikod 
out  likf  a  yoiiii;^  ncntli'lolk,  umi  not  ii  finpT  to 
1)c  liiid  on  liiin  t  Why,  what'll  llio  uclKliborH  Hay? 
Wliiit  do  you  cxpci't  the  village  is  sayiiif?  at  this 
very  nunncDt  V  Do  you  want  a  rcpctiuon  of  old 
times  y  " 

"  Hush,  Quekett !     Pray  bo  silent !  " 

"Oil,  yes!  it'fl  very  easy  to  bid  mo  hold  my 
tontruc,  when  I  eoine  home  to  find  the  Court  run 
over  with  liy-blows — " 

"  IIow  dare  you  speak  of  this  child  In  my 
jircscnco  by  siuch  a  name?"  cxelaims  Irene. — 
"  Philip,  will  you  permit  8uch  an  insult  to  be  of- 
foreil  to  your  wife — and  before  your  servants,  too  ?" 

"  No,  no,  my  dear,  of  corrso  not. — Quekett,  I 
mu.st  entreat  you  to  pass  on  to  yourroom.  Neither 
you  nor  Mrs.  Mordaunt  is  in  ii  fit  state  to  dis- 
cuss this  matter  now." 

"  Ibit  remember,  Mrs.  Quekett,"  adds  Irene, 
"  that  whatever  you  may  Ihhik;  you  shall  not 
speak  of  Master  Tommy  in  that  way  apain." 

"  J  faster  Tommy,  indeed  !  "  sneers  the  house- 
keeper. 

"  Yes,  Mdsler  Tommy.  'Whouver  he  may  be, 
wherever  he  has  come  from,  I  have  adopted  him 
US  my  own  child,  and  I  will  have  him  treated  as 
my  own  child." 

"Oh!  very  well,  ma'am, just  as  you  please." 

"  I  am  frlad  you  see  it  in  its  proper  light  at 
last.  Let  me  pa.^s."  And  with  the  boy  still  in 
her  arms,  Irene  marches  statelily  to  the  breakfast- 
room,  while  the  colonel,  glad  at  any  cost  to  see 
the  interview  come  to  an  end,  follows,  though  with 
his  spirits  down  at  zero. 

As  they  leave  her,  Piobecca  Quekett  turns 
round  upon  the  landing  to  gaze  at  the  retreating 
form  of  the  mistress  of  Feu  Court,  with  a  look  of 
unmistakable  hatred. 

"Humph  !  To  be  treated  as  her  own  child,  is 
he  ?  "  she  says,  maliciously  aloud,  so  that  the  ser- 
vants in  attendance  can  overhear  her  ;  "  and  he  a 
nurse-child  of  that  creature  Cray's,  left  unclaimed 
for  any  lady  to  adopt.  That's  a  queer  story,  ain't 
it?"  she  continues,  appealing  to  one  of  the  men 
beside  her  ;  "  and  perhaps  she  ain't  so  far  wrong 
when  she  stands  out  for  his  being  treated  as  her 
own.  There's  lots  more  things  happen  in  this 
world  than  we've  any  notion  of. — Well,  you'd 
better  get  up  with  .he  boxes  now,  James.  They 
have  kept  us  on  the  landing  long  enough.  Lord 
knows  ?  " 

And  so  the  worthy  disappears  into  her  own 
room,  and  is  lost  to  the  view,  at  all  events  of  Irene, 
for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 


Colonel  and  Mrs.  Mordaunt  have  a  fharp  liitjc 
discussion  on  thi.s  Hubject  during  breakfust-iinic 
— <piite  the  shaii)est  they  have  engagiMl  in  since 
(heir  marriage  ;  and,  though  Irene  will  not  yiclil 
one  inclM\ith  regard  to  (stooping  to  cjnriliaii. 
the  houHc-kei'iier,  she  feels,  at  the  terminati'iii  ii| 
the  meal,  that  she  has  been  worsted  in  the  fi;.'lit. 
For  the  sulij(!ct  of  her  adoption  of  Tommy  Bruwii 
has  necessarily  forme<l  part  of  the  r.rgumeiit,  and 
her  husband  has  gone  so  far  as  to  observe  that  if 
a  child  who  is  no  relation  to  cither  of  them  is  ii 
bring  discord  into  the  house,  he  had  better  .-^o. 
And  here  Irene  recognizee,  for  the  first  time,  licr 
impotence  to  keep  him  in  opposition  to  her  liu- 
band's  wishes,  and  the  knowledge  silences  lur 
even  to  making  her  reflect  sadly  whether  she  may 
not  ultimately  (unless  \\qt prot'yi  is  to  be  east  oi. 
the  world  again)  be  compelled,  for  his  sake,  b; 
submit  to  Mrs.  Quekett's  terms  of  peace  ;  and  tht 
fear  lowers  Colonel  Mordaunt  in  her  eyes — with 
him  lowers  herself,  and  renders  her  morbidly 
depressed.  She  spends  all  the  :norning  in  tli- 
shrubbery,  running  about  with  Tommy,  for  sh' 
cannot  stand  Isabella's  deprecating  air  and  deep- 1 
drawn  sighs ;  and  here,  after  a  while,  tHivc, 
Ralston  conies  to  find  her,  with  bad  news  writtt 
on  his  countenance. 

"  It's  all  knocked  on  the  head,  Irene.     I  caii  1 1 
close  with  Robertson." 

"  Why  not  ?     lias  he  changed  his  mind  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  had  a  letter  from  him  | 
this  morning,  begging  for  my  final  decision,  asl:i' 
is  in  need  of  immediate  help;  but  my  uncle  Iw- 1 
just  had  me  into  his  study,  and  he  says  it's  no  go." 

"  Oliver  !  snrchj  not  on  account  of  Quekett  ? " 

"  Most  surely  yes,  Irene.  I'm  as  certain  tliat  I 
old  fiend  is  at  the  bottom  of  it  as  I  am  that  I'm  | 
alive.  Not  that  Uncle  Philip  told  me  so.  He 
hummed  and  hawed — you  know  his  way  wlicii| 
that  woman's  got  him  into  a  scrape — and  said 
had  been  thinking  the  matter  over,  and  lookiii;  | 
at  it  from  all  points  of  view,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
now  that  it  would  be  more  prudent  of  me  not  to  I 
accept  a  trust  I  might  not  care  to  retain." 

"  I5ut  didn't  you  tell  him  you  do  care  for  it?''  | 

"  Of  course  I  did.    I  said  every  thing  I  coiilii 
think  of,  l)ut  without  effect.     The  fact  is,  lie 
doesn't  wish  me  to  stay  here.    I  could  take  tlie  I 
appointment  without  consulting  him  further:  biii| 
I  owe  every  thing  to  him,  Irene,  and — " 

"  Oh,  yes !  Don't  go  against  his  wishes. 
But  perhaps  he  may  change  his  mind  again,  j 
Shall  I  speak  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  wish  yo»i  would." 

"  Well,  look  after  Tommy,  and  I'll  go  at  once."  I 


i 


iA 


TUB  lIOUSE-KKKrKllS   INTKKJL'Kr*. 


01) 


avc  a  (Imrp  liitl.; 
((  brenkfuHt-tinir 
•n(;nfi»''l  i"  since 
.lie  will  not  yicM 
Inj?  to  c'.'nrirm(c 
lie  ti'miiniiti'iti  (,| 
sled  in  till'  rit.'tit. 
of  Toniiiiy  Hkiwh 
lie  r.rRUtiu'iit,  aM 
to  observe  Unit  if 
luT  of  tlicm  U  h 
ic  luiil  bcltci'  ;.M, 
tlie  first  time,  liir 
nition  to  her  liu- 
udjfc  BiU'iK't'8  litr 
y  whetlier  she  tiwy 
(/i  i.s  to  be  riHt  o;. 
il,  for  his  pake,  v 
I  of  peace ;  nml  thv 
.  in  luT  eyes — witl: 
tiers  licr  niorbiilly 
ho  :noniing  in  tli 
h  Toniniy,  for  s.li. 
ating  air  antl  tloi]!- 
LT  a  wbile,   Olivi 
,h  bail  new3  writttn 

cad,  Irene.     I  caii'i  | 

it:;ed  hid  mind?" 
a  letter  from  him 
final  decision,  as  ht 
but  my  uncle  ha- 
ho  says  it's  no  ro." 
count  of  QuekcttS" 
I'm  as  certain  tliat 
as  I  am  that  I'ml 
p  told  me  so.    He 
now  bis  way  whcsl 
crape — and  said  lio 
over,  and  lookin? 
nd  it  seemed  to  hilt  I 
udent  of  mo  not  tc| 
■0  to  retain." 
■ou  do  caro  for  it?' 
every  thing  I  cowlii 
The  fact  U,  Ik 
I  could  take  tlie 
ighim  further:  but] 
10,  and — " 
jainst    bis    wi.-hcs. 
;c  his   mind  again. 


and  I'll  go  at  once.' 


ne 


<.hi-  linil.s  her  husli.md  .still  in  hi.s  study,  iip- 
p.iri'nily  wrapt  in  tlionglit,  and  daxhes  at  the 
iiiiitter  in  hand  in  Iicr  oivii  frank,  strul^rhtforwunl 
way. 

"  I'liilip,  why  havi!  you  altcrid  your  mind 
about  Oliver  gi)iiig  to  Feiiton  V  " 

"  I /((H'C  altered  it,  my  dear,  «i\d  tiiit  should 
1)0  sullieient." 

"  Not  at  all,  unless  you  Imvo  a  good  reason. 
It  i^ii't  fair." 

"  I  would  rntlicr  not  discuss  the  matter  with 
you,  Irene.  We  have  had  blekering  enough  for 
to-day." 

"  Xeed  we  bicker  because  we  talk  ?  This  sub- 
jci't  iloL'S  not  touch  my  interests  so  nearly  us  the 
oilier;  l)ut  I  think  yo'i  owe  Oliver  some  espla- 
'latiiin  of  the  change." 

"The  explanation  is  very  simple.  Upon  con- 
slilt-ntion,  I  don't  think  the  plan  a  pood  one,  or 
likely  to  prove  for  his  happiiie-s  or  mine." 

"And  the  consideration  came  through  that 
■Aoinan  Quekctt." 

"  U'hy  should  you  think  so  ?  " 
"  Hecauso  I  know    it.  ,  0    Philip,    riiilij) !  " 
.Ind  Irene,  kneeling  down  !)y  his  arm-ehair,  puts 
her  head  upon  her  husband's  knee,  and  begins  to 
cry. 

His  tender  affection  is  aroused  at  once. 
"My  darling,  why  is   this?    Have  I  really 
made  you  unhappy  ?  " 

"Yes,  you  have.  To  sec  you  so  completely 
I  under  subjection  to  your  own  servant ;  to  know 
that  she  can  sway  you  when  I  fail ;  that  her 
wishes  can  make  you  act  contrary  to  your  own 
lood  judgment,  as  you  are  acting  now — you, 
whom  I  looked  up  to  as  so  strong  and  brave,  and 
worthy  to  command  all  who  came  within  your 
range.  It  lowers  you  in  my  eyes ;  it  makes  ;-ou 
I  contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  others,  and  I  cannot 
I  bear  it!" 

"  Irene,  Irene !  for  God's  sake,  spare  me !  " 
lie  has  grown  very  pale  during  the  progrcs- 
I  mn  of  this  speech,  and,  now  that  it  is  ended,  he 
[takes  out  his  handkerchief  and  passes  it  across 
I  his  brow. 

"  Spare  you !  Why  don't  you  spare  mc  from 
linsiilt  in  the  hous?  where  you  have  made  mc  mis- 
[trcss  ?  " 

"  My  darling,  you  don't  understand.  How  J 
Iwish  I  could  explain  it  to  you,  but  I  can't.  But 
jsoveral  members  of  my  family  (my  father,  for  in- 
stance) have  been  laid,  at  differcht  periods  of 
Ithcir  lives,  under  groat  obligations  to  Mrs.  Quek- 
lott,  I  acknowledge  she  is  not  always  pleasant 
|in  her  manners,  and  I  regret  to  see  she  has  not 


taken  so  kiiiilly  to  you  as  I  should  ha\e  liked; 
but,  not.vltlijitaiiding,  I  eoihl  not  feel  iiiy^>elf  j;is- 
tided  ill  not  dohi'^  all  in  my  power  to  repay  '.In,' 
delit  I  owe  her," 

"And  whii'h  I  slioiiM  iinaginu  .'-he  had  eaii- 
eeled  11  thousand  tine -i  over  by  her  lii-oleiiee. 
Hut  why  should  poijr  <  diver  .jiillcr  for  your  father's 
liabilities  V  " 

Colonel  Mordaunt  is  -ile'ii. 

"I'euton  is  more  than  three  miles  from  J''eii 
Court.  Surely  his  presence  at  this  distance  can 
have  no  iiiilueiiee  on  Mrs.  (^uekett's  peace  of 
mind," 

"  Ho  would  always  be  ov.n-  here,  my  dear." 

"  And  so,  bee.iMse  she  objeets  to  it,  your  own 
nephew  is  to  be  banished  frrjm  your  lion^e.  () 
Philip!  I  couM  hardly  have  believed  it  of  you.'' 

"  I'ray,  don't  make  me  more  unhappy  about 
it,  Irene,  than  I  am.  !)■>  you  think  I  don't  feel  it 
also  ? " 

"  Is  that  possible  ?  " 

"I  am  sulVeiiuL',  at  liiis  rii'iment,  fer  more 
than  you,  n.y  elnld,  or  than  Oliver  •-■itliei',  fm' 
that  matter." 

'■  Poor  Philip  I  I  am  so  sorry  foryoii  I  l!nt  is  it 
(piite,  qiiitt:  necessary  that  Oliver  .should  ;:o  'i  " 

"  It  is  '  ipiite,  (jiil/c  necessary.'  If  he  did  not 
go  now,  he  would  be  compelled  to  do  so  in  a  few 
months,  and  perhaps  iiiuler  eiieumstaiiees  most 
unpleasant  to  us  all.  And  yet  sometimes  I  think 
if  I  could  trust  you,  Irene — " 

"  You  may  trust  me,  Philip,  and  to  any  ex- 
tent." 

"I believe  it,  my  darling— but  no,  no,  it  can- 
not bo.  Don't  ask  uv  again.  Only  go  to  poor 
Oliver,  and  tell  him  that  I  will  hold  myself  rc- 
sponsil)le  for  any  expenses  he  may  incur,  in  the 
way  of  premium  or  outfit,  in  proeuring  another 
appointment,  on  the  condition  that  it  is  not  in 
this  county — anywhere,  in  fact,  but  near  here." 

"And  you  won't  trust  me,  then?"  she  says, 
with  a  reproaeliful  air,  as  she  prepares  to  leave  him. 

"  I  cannot — I  dare  not.  Yes,  dearest,  I  will." 
And  with  that  he  rises  suddenly,  and  stands  be- 
fore her,  and  takes  her  two  hands  in  his  own. 
"Irene,  when  you  gave  your  dear  self  to  me  at 
the  altar,  did  you  not  promise  to  honor  me  ?  " 

"  And  I  have  honored  you,  Philip." 

"  I  believe  it ;  and  I  trust  you  to  honor  me 
still,  notwithstanding  that  I  am  unable  to  explain 
all  that  you  wish  to  know." 

"  But  secrcta  are  so  horrid  between  husbands 
and  wives,"  she  says,  pouting,  with  true  feminine 
curiosity ;  "  and  it  is  so  hard  to  forgive  what  one 
understands  nothing  about." 


JW'j  #  fwnm^fi^fmimii^fww 


"^flP^ 


loo 


"NO  IMENTIOXS." 


"  IIuvc  }i)ii  uivrr  l.i'jtt  II  ci'crct  IVoiii  iiii', 
tliiii,  Innc )l " 

Ho  U  iilliiilinn  to  lliu  po.-dililc  imiiu-  of  ]\vr 
fi>riiii.'r  loviT,  mill  llif  I'iiciinMiaiici'.s  of  tlicir  liili- 
iiiiu'V,  wliicli  liuve  iii'ViT  lii'oii  c'imlidi'il  to  liini. 
I!ul  /i' r  tlloll^J,llt^  tly  liiiiiic'<liiilily  to  lior  ni|ii|itcil 
I  hilii  mill  till!  kiiowli'(l(,'o  hlie  jiohmi'shi  «  (if  \\U  jm- 
ifiitii;,'c;  mill  uiiili'i'licrhiirtminrrf  ftcmly  \it\/.i'  hIio 
Ijoooiiii'S  ciiiii.soii  to  tlio  very  iimiiiif^  of  luT  Imir. 

"Oh,  very  will,"  hIic  nnswciH,  witli  a  li;.'lit 
l;iii(;li ;  "  ilon't  let  iih  nay  imy  moi't'  ubmit  it,  s'lici' 
i.ilkiiiK  won't  iiu'iid  iimtteM.  <»iily  I  tnist  my 
(.oiiliiltnt'ii  in  your  iiiteniiiy,  riiilip,  in  not  mip. 
po>L'il  to  cxti'iiil  to  Ik  liliii},'  out  till'  rij,'Iit  liaiul  of 
llUowshlp  to  Mrt.  Qiii'ki'lt.'' 

Hitt  Colonil  Monluuiit  appoara  to  Imvc  for- 
}:oltcn  the  loot  of  the  Hulyoct  in  ipiefitloM.  IIo  \a 
s^till  holiliiig  lior  liamlH,  ami  looking  lixciily  at  litr 
ilowncn^t  pyos  nnd  working  fi'atuics. 

"  My  query  sccins  to  liavu  afl'o'jli  il  you, 
IicnoV" 

"  It  would  afl'oct  any  ono,  I  should  think,  to 
bo  stared  at  as  you  are  Klaring  at  nic.  Hut  this 
is  child's  play,  Thilip.  ^\  hut  is  it  you  want  me 
to  do  ?  " 

"  Only  to  believe  in  mc  as  I  believe  in  yon." 

"  That  would  bo  easy  if  believing  in  you  did 
not  involve  believing  in  Mrs.  Quekctt  also.  IIow- 
I'vor,  I  will  leave  the  woman  to  go  her  way,  if 
she  will  leave  mo  to  go  mine.  Is  that  a  bar- 
gain V  " 

"  I  suppose  you  are  alluding  to  the  thild  ;  she 
has  not  interfered  in  any  thing  else." 

"  I  am.  You  gave  mc  permission  to  adopt 
and  bring  him  up.  'Will  you  make  this  fact  clear 
to  your  house-keeper,  nnd  tell  her,  at  the  same 
time,  that  my  forbearance  depends  entirely  upon 
her  own." 

"  Then  you  sign  a  treaty  of  peace  with  her  ?  " 

"  Under  those  conditions,  and  for  your  sake, 
yes.  I  feel  myself  degraded  to  enter  upon  any 
terms  with  a  dependant ;  but,  since  it  is  for  your 
comfort,  I  concede.  Only  it  must  be  kept  as 
religiously  on  her  side  as  mine.  And  now  I  trust 
wo  have  heard  the  last  of  so  contemptible  a  busi- 
ness." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  sighs,  and  turns  away. 

"  You  are  not  yet  satisfied,  Philip.  AVhat,  in 
Heaven's  name,  would  you  have  me  do  more  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  Indeed,  I  do 
not  see  what  else  there  is  to  be  done.  Only, 
pray  remember  what  I  said  to  you  this  morning, 
and  do  not  irritate  her  more  than  you  can  help." 

"I  shall  never  speak  to — or  notice  her!" 
replies  Irene ;  and  here,  feeling  that  all  that  can 


lie  said  has  been  sold  upon  (he  ."iibject,  (the  lenvij 
till'  Htiidy  Ineotntiiuniealc  the  up^thotof  the  iniir- 
view  to  Oliver. 

Coloiirl  .Monl.kiinl,  1(  It  to  hhui'elf,  looki  moii.' 
thoii(;htfiil  than  In  lore.  He  has  eoiirled  Ihr  In. 
formation  that  his  wife  has  not  laid  her  wlinj,' 
heart  bare  to  him,  and  yet  now  he  fi^'ls  miricrulilc 
beeailM'  hlie  has  put  tiie  si;;li-iiiaiiual  of  ^iltinf 
en  a  fiiet  whieh  he  knew  to  be  mieli.  Mrs.  (^iii  I,. 
lit,  Oliver  Kalslon,  the  child,  every  thing  wliidi 
has  worrieil  him  hitherto,  pa?isis  from  his  iiiiinl, 
to  give  place  to  the  eurioslly  with  wliieh  he  hji;;. 
to  illseover  how  much  of  her  former  life  Irene  lin 
kept  baek  from  him.  He  reiiii  luliers  vividly  nil 
die  said  to  him  at  IJrussels,  iiinl  {n  the  link 
Hitlitig-room  at  Norwood,  on  the  hubject  of  lur 
di.-appoiiitiiieiit ;  but  ho  v,a:i  so  lag"''  in  ll..^ 
ehase  nt  that  lime — so  "iixioiis  to  seeure  her  I'r 
himself  at  any  cost — that  ho  did  not  elioo.>c  i  > 
believe  what  she  asserlud  to  be  triu' — that  il 
best  part  of  her  lit'o  was  over.  "Vet  had  ii'; 
the  secpicl  |)roved  him  to  be  in  the  right  y  Vk 
the  six  months  she  has  been  his  wife  her  s|iiri:- 
have  gone  on  gradually  iiiiproviiig  day  by  ilav 
Indeed,  a  few  weeks  ago  she  was  buoyant— i;i.  I 
diant — running  over  with  fun ;  and,  if  they  liuvr  [ 
conimeneed  to  (lag  again,  it  has  only  been  sinee- 

"  Since  when  ?  " 

"  Since  the  arrival  of  Tommy  lirown  amoi ;  | 
them !  "     As  Colonel  Mordaunt's  thoughts,  tnivii- 
iiig  backward  and  taking  notes  by  the  way,  lif;!,! 
on  this  fact,  he  rises  from  his  seat,  and  wulb  | 
aimlessly  about  the  room. 

"  D— n  that  child  !  "  he  says,  without  tL.  I 
least  reserve,  "  I  wish  to  God  we  had  never  sciil 
or  heard  of  him  !" 

And  then  he  goes  out  to  his  stables  and  kc:.. 
ncl,  and  tries  to  forget  all  about  it ;  but  the  id«  I 
haunts   him  nevertheless,  and  often  after  tluil 
day  Irene,  glancing  up  suddenly,  finds  him  study- 
ing her  face,  with  an  earnestness  not  altogclh<;l 
born  of  affection,  which  puzzles  while  it  wouu'i- 
her. 

Mrs.  Mordaunt,  in  desiring  her  husband  kI 
inform  Mrs.  Quekctt  that  peace  between  tluEJ 
can  only  be  maintained  at  the  cost  of  all  coimiii; 
nication,  has  entered  into  the  worst  pact  wit. I 
the  house-keeper  she  could  possibly  have  made  I 
For  Rebecca  Quekctt  is  a  woman  to  be  coucilil 
ated,  not  to  be  dared.  She  has  her  good  point-l 
(no  htiman  creature  is  without)  and  her  wca'il 
points,  and  were  Irene  politic  enough  to  dra'l 
out  the  one  or  trade  upon  the  other,  she  migl::! 
turn  what  promises  to  be  a  formidable  enemy  in  o| 


^ 


TIIK  (iLOTToNDCRV   HAl-L 


101 


ilijoct,  bIh'  li'ftvij 
T'liotof  tlic  liilir. 

niu^lf,  li.'okii  nioio 

iMiurlcil  111!'  in- 

L  laltl   liiT   vlml.' 

U'  foils  liiirtiilllili 

iiituunl  of  hlliiii'. 
iiL'li.  MiH.  Huil. 
■vefy  lliinj;  wliiih 
.'s  from  liirt  iiiiiiJ, 

th  wliiih  liu  ll'llr'- 
iiicr  life  IiC'iu'  li,n 
Liiiljurs  viviilly  all 
mill  in  thu  littk 
lid  Mitiji'i't  <if  lur 

(10   til).'"'    in  tl. 

to  gcc.'Ui'C  laf  I'r 
(lid  not   t'lioo.-e  t 

1)0  tnu— tliiil  il. 
p.  "  Yut  luul  11' : 
in  the  rifjlil  V  i'"' 
i.s  wife  hor  iT'''- 

iviiii?  liny  '')'  ''^.^ 
wiis  buoyant— 1.1- 
;  unci,  if  thfv  liav. 
IS  only  been  sinci.'-  I 

Timy  Urown  nmo: ;  | 
IV  lliotiKlit.-t,  triivi; 
8  by  llio  way,  liiili  I 
113  scat,  and  walk.' 

gays,  without  \k\ 
wf  bad  never  sea 

is  stables  and  ke;.| 
)ut  it ;  but  the  idcj 
id  often  after  tluil 
dy,  finds  him  study. I 
iioHS  not  altogctb.: 
les  while  it  wouu'i- 


ng  her  husban<l  u 
caco  between  tluiil 

cost  of  all  eoiiiui; 
the  worst  pact  wit' 
possibly  have  niai!; ' 
)man  to  be  coiici;- 
has  her  good  poi'Ji>l 
lOut)  and  her  wci'J 
tic  enough  to  ilw'l 
the  other,  she  mi?l  I 

irmidable  enemy  io  'I 


i  liarniledn  if  tint  di^imliU!  fii'nl.  jtut  »ho  lit 
1(1(1  iiliiritrd  mid  tno  frank  to  plnd  s.<  to  l>(«  wliiit 
rlie  i.-i  not ;  mid  ho,  In  m  lin;  hour  tliat  Colonel 
Miirdauiit  timidly  aiinoiuici'i)  lii.H  wife's  deter- 
iniimlioll  to  liirt  hoiisi'ki'i'iK'r,  tiiu  futiiio  of  tin; 
foiliiiT  i^  tllldcrinillL'd.  >ll-i.  tiUiki'tt  dot's  not 
lay  ony  plung  for  ottaek.  She  given  vent  to  no 
fi'cliii}.M  of  aniiiioslty,  nor  iloi  s  hIu',  iit  Iriist  open. 
U,  lirc.ik  tlu!  true.' ;  but  nlie  ii'iiieinbeii*  and  (.he 
waiti",  and  Mr-i.  (Jiiekctl  docs  nol  remember  and 
wait  foi' — notliin;,'. 

TliD  riiontliH  }?o  by.  Oliver  Uul.-tton  h^is  pro- 
cured einployment  wlt'.i  anotlior  eouiitry  prarti- 
liinior,  somewhere  down  in  iJevon,  and  is  working 
sti'adily.  Tommy  has  pii.J^ed  liis  third  birthilay, 
und,  uiid'T  the  tuition  of  his  ndopttd  mother,  is 
tK'Coining  quite  a  civilized  little  beiii'r,  who  has 
learned  the  use  of  a  iioeket-liiindkereliief,  and 
"pualis  Kiif,-lish  aliuo.^t  n.s  well  as  sho  docs.  Colo- 
nel Mordiiunt,  as  kind  as  ever  to  his  wife,  thou;^li 
pciliaps  a  little  more  sober  in  disjdayin^  lii.s  allee- 
lion  for  her — a  fact  which  Irene  never  di.^eovci's 
— liiiils  that  tlie  hunting -scu.-ion  is  over,  and 
wonders  how  he  shall  aniu.-'e  himself  for  the  next 
hix  niuntlis,  Isabella  is  as  rpiict  anil  timid  ;ind 
ivjiervcd  and  melancholy  as  ever  ;  and  .Mrs.  (^tiek- 
I'tt  still  kec|is  thu  peace. 

Xot  that  she  never  meets  her  mistress  face  to 
face— that  would  be  impossible  in  a  place  like  Fen 
C'oart — but  a  (piiet  "  good-morning  "  or  "  good- 
iiiglit"  in  pas.siiig — a  courtesy  on  her  side,  and  an 
inclination  of  Irene's  head  upon  the  other — is  all 
tbc  communication  that  takes  place  between  them ; 
and,  as  far  as  my  heroine  can  discover,  Mrs. 
Quckett  has  never  again  dared  to  correct  Tommy, 
although  the  child's  aversion  for  her,  and  terroi- 
of  poing  near  any  room  which  she  occupies,  seem 
m  though  she  had  taken  some  means  of  letting 
liiin  understand  what  he  has  to  expect  if  he  ven- 
tures to  presume  on  her  forbearance.  Yet, 
though  outwardly  there  is  peace,  Irene  has  many 
an  inward  heartache.  The  subsidence  of  her 
husband's  first  adoration  (which  would  have  been 
ipiickly  noticed  by  a  woman  in  love  with  him) 
^,'ivcs  her  no  uneasiness.  On  the  contrary,  had 
she  observed  and  questioned  her  own  heart  on 
the  subject,  she  would  have  confessed  the  change 
was  a  relief  to  her.  But  there  is  something 
between  them,  beyond  that — an  undefinablc  some- 
thing which  can  be  felt,  if  not  explained.  It  is 
the  cold  cloud  of  Reserve.  There  is  that  between 
the  husband  and  wife  which  they  dare  not  speak 
of,  because  they  know  they  cannot  agree  upon 
the  subject ;  and  Reserve  feeds  upon  itself,  and 
grows  by  what  it  feeds  on. 


The  heart  hmt  many  little  clianibers,  iiml  li  in 
dillleiilt  (oki'i'p  one  door  clo-i' d  iiiid  throw  0|ie!l 
all  till-  others.  And  mi,  Imperctptildy,  they  drilt 
a  little  farther  and  a  lilllu  farther  apart  fiotii  cne 
aiiollirr  every  day.  Irene  has  no  object  lii  life 
apparently  but  the  ediieation  of  the  eliild — Colo- 
nel .Mordaniit  none  but  the  care  of  his  kennd  and 
his  ^'tables.  Irene  is  kinder  to  the  liorHts  and  dogs 
than  he  is  to  Tommy.  Sho  ol'tm  aecom|iaiiitfs 
him  on  his  rounds  to  xtroke  and  fondle  and  ad- 
mire the  noble  animals,  but  Iw  i-cldoni  or  ever 
throws  a  kind  word  to  the  boy. 

Indeed,  Tommy  is  almost  asafiaid  ijf  him  u6 
he  i.i  of  Mrs.  (Juekett,  Cidonel  Mordmint,  at  all 
events,  comes  second  in  hi.-;  \Ul  of  "  bogies :  "  nud 
sometimes  Irene  feels  so  disheartened.  Aw  almost 
wishes  she  had  never  seen  the  child,  liiii  the 
remcmlirance  of  her  iiromi.^o  to  his  mother  (whom 
.■^lie  has  grown  to  pity  ."ar  more  than  her.selt)  will 
!-oon  recall  her  to  a  sense  of  pleasure  in  her  duty. 
Ihit  she  is  no  lon^'cr  so  Irippy  as  she  was  at  first. 
The  gloss  has  worn  olf  the  new  life — change  has 
ceased  to  be  change — and  .>.ometimes  an  awful 
sense  of  regret  smites  her,  and  makes  her  hate 
hen'clf  for  her  ingratitude,  lliit  we  cannot  force 
ourselves  to  be  happy;  and  the  extrune  dnl'  .'ss 
of  I'riestley  d'jcs  no',  contribute  to  m:'  iier 
sliake  off  a  feeling  of  which  she  U  ashm     A. 

Meanwhile  the  bleak,  cold  spriii!.'  itcps  on, 
and  loses  Itself  in  April. 

One  morning,  as  they  aie  all  stated  by  the 
brcakfast-tttble,  Colonel  Mordaunt  has  a  large  and 
important-looking  enveloiie  jiut  into  his  hand; 
and  his  correspoinlcnce  in  general  being  by  no 
means  important,  its  appearance  attracts  atten- 
tion. 

"An  invitation,  I  should  iaagine,"  remarks 
Irene,  as  she  looks  up  from  buttering  Tommy's 
fourth  round  of  bread. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  my  dear,  and  we  shall  see. 
Yes,  exactly  so ;  and  a  very  proper  attention  for 
them  to  pay  him.  I  shall  have  the  greatest 
pleasure  in  complying  with  their  wishes."' 

"What  wishes,  Philip?— (No,  Tommy:  no 
jam  this  morning)." 

"That  I  shall  be  one  of  the  steward.--.  It 
seems  that  our  new  member,  Mr.  Ilolmcs,  Is  about 
to  visit  Glottonbury,  and  the  people  are  desirous 
to  welcome  him  with  a  dinner  and  a  ball,  in  the 
town-hall.  And  a  very  happy  thought,  too.  The 
festivities  will  please  all  classes;  give  employ- 
ment to  the  poor,  and  amusement  to  the  rich 
— and  the  ladles  of  Glottonbury  that  cannot  ap- 
pear at  the  dinner,  will  grace  the  ball.     An  ex- 


m 


102 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


trcmely  happy  thought.  I  wondoi'  \vhoori<;inatcil 
It?" 

'•  A  publii;  Uinuer  and  ball,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oonerally  so — but  they  will  send  us  tickets. 
You  will  go,  my  dear,  of  couvse  ?  " 

"To  the  ball?  Oh,  indeed,  I  would  rather 
not.     I  have  not  danced  for  ages." 

"  Tliere'is  no  need  to  dance,  if  you  will  only 
put  in  an  appearance.  As  the  .vifo  of  a  man 
holding  so  important  a  position  in  the  county  as 
myself,  and  one  of  the  stewards  of  the  dinner,  I 
think  it  becomes  your  duty  to  be  present,  if  you 
can." 

"Very  well,  I  have  no  objection.  I  suppose 
one  of  the  last  year's  dresses  will  do  for  Glotton- 
bury.  But  really  I  feel  as  though  I  should  be 
ipiite  out  of  my  element.    Who  will  bo  there  ?  " 

"  Most  of  the  county  people,  I  conclude — the 
Grimstoncs  andBatcherleys,  and  Sir  John  Cootes's 
party,  and  Lord  Dcuham  and  the  Mowbrays.  Sir 
John  and  Mr.  Bateherley  arc  upon  the  list  of 
stewards,  I  sec.  I  am  gratified  at  their  including 
my  name.  Then  there  will  be  a  largo  party 
of  Mr.  Holmes's  friends  from  town,  and  among 
them  Lord  Muiravcn.  Isn't  that  a  member  of  the 
fai.iily  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Cavendish,  was  so  fond 
of  talking  about?" 

But  to  this  question  Colonel  Mordaunt  receives 
no  answer.  Presently,  he  looks  across  the  table  to 
where  his  wife  is  tracing  fancy  patterns  with  a 
fork  upon  the  cloth,  and  thinks  that  she  looks 
very  pale. 

"  Do  the  Cavendishes  know  Lord  Muiravcn  ?  " 

"  I  believe  Mary  met  him  once  at  a  ball." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"No!" 

"  Then  what  the  deuce  was  your  aunt  always 
making  such  a  row  about  him  for?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"A:en'tyou  well?" 

"  Perfectly,  thank  you.  When  is  this  ball  to 
take  place  ? " 

"  Next  Tuesday  week.  It  is  short  notice ; 
but  Mr.  Holmes's  visit  is  unexpected.  He  seems 
to  have  made  bis  way  in  the  county  wonderfully." 

"  Is  he  a  young  man  ?  " 

"  Thirty  or  thereabout.  I  saw  him  at  the 
election.  He  has  a  pleas  :\nt  voice  and  manner, 
but  is  no  beauty.  He  and  Lord  Muiravcn  and  a 
Mr.  Norton  are  to  be  the  guests  of  Sir  John 
Cootes." 

"  ire  any  other  strangers  coming  with  them  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  My  lette;'  is  from  Huddles- 
ton.    He  doesn't  mention  it." 

"  I  wish  you  would  find  out." 


"  Why  ? " 

"  Because  it  will  make  a  great  difference  in  the 
evening's  enjoyment.  One  doesn't  care  to  U 
dependent  on  the  tradesmen  of  Glottonbury  fur 
partners." 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  mean  to  dance." 

"  No  more  I  do — at  present.  But  there  n  uo 
knowing  what  one  might  not  be  tempted  to,  Auv. 
way,  find  out  for  me,  Philip." 

"  What  friends  Mr.  Holmes  briug.'J  wiih  him  ? " 

"  Exactly  so.    Will  you  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  understand  what  interest  the  mat- 
ter can  possibly  have  for  you,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  never  mind  it,  then. — Have  you  quite 
finished.  Tommy?  Then  come  along  and  order 
the  dinner  with  mamma."  And,  with  the  child  Ic 
her  hand,  Irene  leaves  the  room.  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt looks  after  her  suspiciously.  "Who  cm 
earth  can  she  be  expecting  to  come  down  from 
London  to  this  ball  ?  "  He  is  beginning  to  be 
suspicious  about  very  little  things  nowadays,  anJ 
he  alludes  to  the  subject  in  an  irritable  sort  of 
manner  two  or  th.-ee  times  during  the  foreno&E, 
until  lie  puts  Irene  out. 

"  Look  here,  Philip.  I  would  rather  lot  go 
to  this  ball  at  all.  I  have  no  inclination  for  it, 
and  the  preparations  will  probably  involve  a  great 
deal  of  trouble.     Please  let  me  stay  at  home." 

"Indeed,  I  cannot  hear  of  it.  You  r»u8f  go, 
and  look  your  best.  As  my  wife,  it  will  be  Ci- 
pected  of  you,  Irene." 

"  To  be  jostled  by  a  crowd  of  tradespeople," 
she  murmurs.  "  I  hate  a  public  ball  at  any  time, 
but  an  election-ball  must  be  the  worst  of  all." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  The  rooms  ai"e  large,  ami 
the  arrangements  will  be  conducted  on  the  most 
liberal  scale.  All  you  will  have  to  do  will  be  to 
look  pretty,  and  enjoy  yourself;  and  the  first  la 
never  difficult  to  you,  my  darling." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  go,  after  that, 
Philip.  Only  I  don't  consent  till  I  have  seen  a 
li.st  of  the  expected  guests  from  town." 

"Why  this  anxiety  about  a  pack  of  stran- 
gers?" exclaims  Colonel  Mordaunt,  pettishly. 
But  he  procures  the  list  nevertheless.  It  contains 
but  one  name  with  which  she  is  in  the  least 
familiar — that  of  Lord  Muiravcn. 

"  And  these  are  really  all  ? "  she  says,  as  sbc 
peruses  it. 

"  Really  all !  There  are  at  least  twenty.  Are 
they  sufficient  to  satisfy  your  ladyship  ?  " 

"  Quite ! "  Willi  a  deep-drawn  sigh.  "  I  will 
not  worry  you  any  more  about  it,  Philip.  I  will 
go  to  the  ball." 


AN   UNEXPECTED  MEETINCJ. 


103 


bi'iiiK'''  ^^'-''  l''"!?'' 


Oil  t'.:"  evening  in  (inodtion,  Iiowcvlt,  .••lii;  is 
not  lookinj;  licr  beat ;  and,  us  l'iiii;lio  Hiraya  lior 
in  one  of  linr  dressed  of  the  past  season,  tdie  is 
amazed  to  find  liow  niiicli  her  mistreid  bas  fallen 
away  about  llio  neek  and  ^boulders,  and  how 
broad  a  tueker  slie  ia  oblij^ed  to  insert  in  order 
to  remedy  the  evil.  But  Irene  appears  blissfully 
iuiiill'erent  as  to  what  effeet  she  may  produee, 
and  is  only  anxious  to  go  to  the  ball  and  to  come 
back  again,  and  to  have  it  all  over.  Slio  is  terri- 
biy  nervous  of  encountering  Lord  Muiravon  (al- 
though, from  tlie  descriptions  of  Mary  Cavendish, 
she  knows  ho  cannot  in  any  way  resemble  his 
vo  anger  brother),  and  yet  she  dares  not  forbid 
her  husband  to  introduce  him,  for  fear  of  provok- 
ing an  in  luiry  on  the  reason  of  her  request.  fc>he 
arrives  at  the  Olottonbury  town-hall,  in  company 
with  Isabella,  at  about  ten  o'clock ;  and  Colonel 
MorJauut,  as  one  of  the  masters  of  the  ceremonies, 
ineuts  her  at  the  entrance. 

"  Are  you  still  determined  not  to  dance  '?  "  he 
says,  as  he  leads  her  to  a  seat. 

"Quite  so.  Pray  don't  introduce  any  one. 
I  feel  tired  already." 

lie  glances  at  her. 

"  You  do  look  both  pale  and  tired.  Well, 
here  is  a  comfortable  sofa  for  you.  Perhaps  yon 
will  feel  better  by-and-by.  I  must  go  now  and 
receive  the  rest  of  the  company." 

"Yes:  pray  don't  mind  me.  I  shall  amuse 
myself  sitting  here  and  watching  the  dancers. 
0  Philip,"  her  eyes  glistening  with  appreeia- 
tivc  delight,  "  do  look  at  that  green  head-dvess 
with  the  b'rd-of-paraJiso  seated  on  a,  nest  of 
roses." 

"  You  wicked  child !  you  arc  always  making 
fun  of  some  one.  How  I  wish  I  could  s(ay  with 
you!  but  I  must  go.  I  shall  look  you  up  again 
j  very  soon." 

He  disappears  among  the  crowd  as  he 
I  speaks,  and  Irene  is  left  by  herself,  Isabella  (to 
vrhoin  any  thing  like  a  passing  jest  on  the  costume 
of  a  fellow-Christian  appears  quite  in  the  light  of 
a  sin)  having  walked  off  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  For  a  while  she  la  sufficiently  amused  by 
watching  the  company,  and  inwardly  smiling  at 
their  little  eccentricities  of  dress  or  manner, 
I  their  flirtations,  and  evident  curiosity  respecting 
herself.  But  this  sort  of  entertainment  soon  palls, 
and  then  she  begins  to  question  why  she  cannot 
feel  as  happy  as  they  appear  to  be;  and  her 
thoughts  wander  over  her  past  life,  and  she  sinks 
into  a  reverie,  during  whir^h  the  lights  and  flowers, 
the  dancers  and  the  music,  are  lost  or  disappear; 
I  and  virtually  she  is  alone.     How  long  she  sits 


there,  motionless  and  silent,  she  c.mnot  afteiwurd 
aeeonnt  for;  but  the  sound  that  nmses  her  from 
her  dream  and  brings  her  baek  to  earth  again  is 
the  voice  of  Colonel  Mordauiit, 

"My  dear!"  he  is  saying,  "I  have  found  a 
companion  for  you  who  is  as  la/y  as  yourself. 
Allow  nio  to  introUuee  to  you  Lord  Muiraven  ! " 

At  that  name  she  starts,  (lushes,  and  look.s 
up. 

But,  as  her  eyes  are  raised,  ail  the  color  dies 
out  of  her  face,  and  leaves  it  ol  a  ghastly  white. 
For  the  man  whom  Uwr  husl)aud  hay  introduced 
to  her  as  Lord  Muiraven  is — Emc  Keik  ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Loud  Muirave^j,  my  love — friend  of  our 
new  member,  staying  with  Sir  John  Coole— de- 
sires an  introduction  to  you,"  coutiiiucs  Colonel 
Mordaunt,  in  explanation,  as  he  perceives  that 
his  wife  and  her  new  acquaintance  both  look 
awkward,  <m<l  neither  smile  at  nor  address  each 
other,  as  ia  usual  ui.der  similar  uircuuistauces. 
But  Irene's  head  is  swimming,  and  all  power  of 
action,  or  of  acting,  has  deserted  her. 

She  tries  to  smile,  but  the  elFort  dies  away  in 
a  sickly  flicker  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 
She  tries  to  speak,  but  no  sound  issues  from  her 
trembling  lips  except  a  nervous  cough.  She 
hears  the  words  her  Inisband  utters,  but  her 
mind  is  rendered  incapable  of  understanding 
them. 

For,  in  the  first  shock  of  this  most  unexpected 
meeting,  she  remembers  nothing,  except  tha*' 
Eric  Keir  is  t'uere,  and  that  he  is  £ric  Keir.  She 
forgets  the  reputed  insult  cast  on  her  affections  ; 
the  irreparable  injury  wrought  poor  Myra ;  her 
mother's  misery  ;  the  orphanhood  of  her  adopted 
child ;  forgets  the  silence,  heartlessness,  and 
shame,  that  intervenes  between  them  and  their 
last  meeting ;  and  remembers  only  that  the  friend 
— the  lover — (rom  whose  presence  she  has  been 
exiled  for  t.vo  weary  years,  has  come  baek  to  her 
again. 

Muiraven  Miji^-s  no  more  than  she  does — the 
rencontre  falls  on  him  with  quite  as  great  a  shock 
as  it  has  done  on  her — but  feeling  that  he  must 
say  something,  he  stammers  forth  mechanically 
the  first  words  that  come  to  his  assistance  : 

"  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  this  waltz  wit'o 


I 


Ill 

'I 

■n 


you 


f  11 


"  Most  happy  ! "  rising  from  her  seat. 

"  Going  to  dance  together ! "  cselaimed  Colo- 


, 


III'] 


104 


"NO   IxVTENTIONS." 


^ 


m 


p.el  Mordaunt,  with  unfeifmcd  Burpvisc  nnd  a 
Rood-tenipercd  IdiiKli ;  "  well,  this  beats  every 
thing !  You  come  out,  Irene,  under  a  vow  not 
to  stir  from  tlli.^  sofa  all  the  evening;  and  when, 
after  considerable  trouble,  I  find  some  one  with 
similar  tastes  to  sit  by  and  talk  to  you  (I  have 
offered  to  introduce  Lord  Muiravrn  to  all  the 
prettiest  girls  in  succession,  but  he  refused  my 
good  offices),  the  first  thing  I  hear  is  that  you're 
going  tc  spin  round  the  room  like  a  couple  y,'. 
teetotums ! " 

"Not  if  you  do  not  wish  it,  riiiiip,"  savs 
Irene,  drawing  back,  and  already  rcpcntin-;  of 
her  bewildered  acquiescence. 

"  My  dear  child,  what  nonsenss !  I  like  noth- 
ing bct^ter  than  to  see  you  enjoy  yourself.  And  I 
think  Lord  Muiravcn  pays  me  a  great  compli- 
ment in  choosing  my  wife  for  a  partner,  when  he 
has  refused  every  one  else.  An  old  married 
woman  like  you,  Irene — why,  yo.i  should  feel 
quite  proud ! " 

"  It  is  I,"  says  Muiravcn,  looking  steadily 
away  from  Irene  and  into  the  face  of  her  hus- 
band, "  it  is  I  who  have  reason  to  feel  proud  at 
Mrs. — Mrs. — Mordaunt's  gracious  acceptance  of 
me  as  a  partner." 

"Oh,  very  well!  settle  it  between  yourselves, 
my  lord.  For  my  part  I  must  be  off  to  find  some 
less  fastidious  gentleman  to  accept  the  honors 
you  declined.  No  sinecure  being  master  of  the 
ceremonies,  I  can  tell  you.  It's  the  first  time  I 
( ver  accepted  such  a  responsibility,  and  I'll  take 
good  care  it  shall  be  the  last.  It  is  fortunate 
that  I  have  not  more  of  the  ruder  sex  upon  my 
hands,  with  your  idiosyncrasies,  my  lord  ! " 

"  You  shall  have  no  further  cause  to  com- 
plain of  me,"  replies  Muiravcn,  with  an  uneasy 
laugh,  as  the  colonel  leaves  them ;  "  I  will  be  as 
tractable  as  a  lamb  from  this  moment."  And 
then  the  wretched  victima  are  left  alone  in  the 
crowd,  standing  opposite  each  other,  and  neither 
daring  to  lift  a  glance  from  off  the  floor. 

"  Troia-lcmps,  or  dcvx-tcmps  ?  "  inquires  Muir- 
avcn, in  a  low  voice,  as  he  puts  his  arm  round 
her  waist. 

"  Whichever  you  please." 

"  It  must  be  as  i/ou  like." 

"  Trois-iemps,  then." 

The  dance  ha?  been  going  on  for  some  min- 
utes, and  they  b;  it  at  pnce.  But  by  this  time 
Irene's  mind  ha?  recovered  its  balance,  and  en- 
ables her  to  reali/.e  the  position  in  which  her  sud- 
den nervousness  has  placed  her.  Clearly  and 
forcibly  she  recalls  with  whom  she  is  whirling 
about  in  such  familiar  contiguity;  tchose  arm  is 


firmly  cla?pcd  about  her  waist ;  whose  hand  lioldj 
hers  —  and  with  the  recovered  powers  of  judg. 
ment  comes  the  recollection  of  th.at  cruel  day  ir. 
Brook  Street,  when  the  sctnt  of  the  stock  and 
mignonette  and  the  strains  of  the  "Blue  Danube' 
mocked  her  agony,  and  her  mother — her  prir,: 
mother,  who  nevcv  recovered  the  shock  whith 
this  man's  insult  caused  her — came  to  her  niiL 
the  news  that  he  had  no  intentiom! 

No  intentions !  With  the  old  haekncyoil 
phrase  comes  back,  in  a  flash,  as  it  used  to  do  in 
those  past  days,  the  remembrance  of  the  lookj, 
tl'.c  words,  the  actions,  by  which  ho  had  raisM 
her  hopes,  atid  made  her  believe  him  to  be  fa!-c 
as  themselves. 

The  looks,  the  words,  the  actions,  which  were 
doubtless  but  a  repetition  of  those  by  which  1]» 
lured  poor  Myra  to  her  doom  ! 

"  Oh !  let  me  go ! " 

The  words  burst  fiom  her  lips — not  lotid 
for,  even  in  our  moments  of  worst  agony,  the  stoi!  I 
conventionalities   of  society,   which   have  been  | 
dinned  into  our  ears  from  our  youth  upward,  wi!i 
make  us  remember  where  we  arc — but  with  s 
ring  in  them  of  such  unmistakable  carncstiic-- 
and  entreaty,  that  he  is  forced  to  listen. 

"  Are  you  not  well  ?  " 

"  Yes ! — no ! — I  cannot  dance ;  we  are  all  oiii  I 
of  step  ? — pray  take  me  back !  "  she  falters  ;  arii 
her  pale  face  alarms  him,  so  that  he  stops,  am!  | 
draws  her  arm  within  his  own,  and  leads  her, 
half  blind  with  dizziness,  to   the  sofa  where  she  | 
sat  before. 

There  he  stands  for  a  few  moments  by  her 
side,  looking  awkward,  and  fidgeting  with  tlif 
button  of  his  glove,  but  making  no  further  com- 1 
ment  on  her  change  of  mind.     She  sits  still,  burn- 
ing with  contempt,  ready  to  weep  with  indigna- 
tion, and  longing  to  be  able  to  tell  him  to  leave  I 
her  presence  and  never  enter  it  again — while  I)f  j 
would  give  the  world  for  courage  to  seek  an  os- 
planation  with  her,  or  say  one  word  in  defense 
of  his  own  conduct. 

One  word — one  cry  for  forgiveness — the  prc-- 
ent  opportunity  is  all  his  own,  and  he  may  iicvc 
have  another ;  and  yet  his  tongue  is  glued  to  bi- 
mouth,  and  he  cannot  utter  a  syllable.  They  aw 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  strangers — the  con- 
ventionalities of  society  SHrround  them  —  ami 
neither  of  them  can  speak,  except  conventionally.  | 
So  much  are  we  the  slaves  of  custom. 

"Are  you  really  not  going  to  dance  again? " 
he  says  abruptly. 

"  I  cannot — I  do  not  wish  to — " 

"  Then  perhaps  I  had  better — Colonel  Mot 


IRENE  AND  MR.   HOLMES. 


106 


to—" 
etter — Colonel  Mor 


daunt  is  so  much  in  want  of  partners — perhaps  I 
liiid  better— join  liini." 
"  Yes !— do ! " 

"It  is  your  wish,  Mr.^. — Mordaunt?" 
"  Yes  ! "  And  the  next  moment  he  has  bowed 
(111(1  left  her.  Tliey  have  yearned  for  and 
mourned  over  one  another  for  years;  yet  they 
can  meet  and  port  lilic  other  people,  excepting 
that  their  words  arc  characterized  liy  more 
brusqiiencss  than  strangers  would  havo  dared  to 
use.  A  lone  heart  often  strives  to  hide  itself  by 
a  short  manner.  It  is  only  men  who  arc  indiffer- 
ent to  one  another,  and  women  who  hato  each 
othiM',  that  take  the  trouble  to  round  their  scn- 
tence.'",  and  mind  tlieir  periods.  These  two 
hearts  are  so  flustered  and  so  sore  that  they  do 
I  not  even  observe  the  want  of  politeness  with  which 
thcv  have  questioned  and  answered  one  another. 
"  Why,  Irene ! — sitting  down  again,  and  Lord 
Miiiraven  gone !  "  exclaims  the  voice  of  Colonel 
Mordaunt,  who  is  making  the  tour  cf  the  l)all- 
room  with  another  gentleman,  unknown  to  her. 
I  She  has  been  alone,  she  is  liardly  conscious  for 
how  long,  her  thoughts  have  been  so  bitter  and 
disturbed,  but  her  equanimity  is,  in  a  great  meas- 
ure, restored,  and  she  is  enabled  to  answer  her 
husband's  inquiry  with  a  smile  which  is  not  to 
I  be  detected  as  untrue. 

"  Yes ;  I  made  him  go,  for  my  attempt  at  dan- 

I  cing  was  a  failure — I  am  really  not  up  to  it,  Philip." 

"  My  poor  girl !   I  am  so  sorry.    We  must 

I  tulk  to  Dr.  Robertson  about  this,  Irene.     By-the- 

ivav,  let  mo  introduce  Mr.  Holmes  to  yoti." 

The  stranger  bows,  and  takes  his  station  on  the 
I  other  side  of  her. 

"  And  whc'.e  is  Lord  Muiraven,  tlien  ?  "  in- 
I quires  Colonel  Mordaunt;  "dancing?  " 

"  I  suppose  so :  he  went  in  search  of  you,  I 
I  believe,  to  procure  him  a  partner." 

"  There  he  is ! "  observes  Mr.  Holmes,  "  wan- 
I  dering  about  in  bis  aimless  manner  at  the  end  of 
the  ballroom.     He  is  the  strangest  fellow  possi- 
ble, Muiraven,  and  never  does  any  thing  like  an- 
I  other  man.     I  shouldn't  be  in  the  least  surprised 
to  see  him  ask  one  oi  those  girls  to  dance  before 
I  he  has  had  an  introduction  to  her." 

"  He  will  scandalize  her  if  he  does.     Glotton- 
I  bury  sticks  up  for  the  proprieties,"  says  Irene, 
quickly. 

"  I  must  go  and  save  him  from  such  a  calami- 
I  ty  as  the  scorn  of  Glottonbury  !  "  exclaims  her 
husband.    "  Besides,  there  are  half  a  dozen  pret- 
ty girls  dying  to  bo  introduced  to  him  in  the  oth- 
er room."    And  off  he  hurries  to  the  ai('  of  his 
j  new  acquaintance. 


"Have  you  met  Muiraven,  Mrs.  Mordaunt  ?  " 

"My  huslpiind  brought  him  up  to  nie  just 
now." 

"  Hut  before  to-night,  I  meai." 

"  He  usi',1  to  visit  at  our  house  long  ago, 
when  my  iiiiithcr  was  alive;  Imt  he  was  nut  l.uiil 
Muiraven  then." 

"Ah!  that  was  a  snd  tiling,  wasn't  it?  No 
one  felt  it  more  tlum  he  diil," 

"  I  don't  know  to  what  you  allude.'' 

"  His  elder  brother's  death,  lie  was  a  Jolly 
follow;  so  much  liked  l)y  all  of  us;  and  he  was 
lost  in  an  Alpine  tour  last  summer,  f'urely  you 
must  have  heard  of  it." 

"  Indeed  I  did  not :  I  have  been  liviii|,'  very 
quietly  down  here  for  the  last  twelve  montlis, 
and  taking  very  little  interest  in  what  goes  on  in 
tlie  outside  world.  It  iiiust  lia\e  been  a  very 
shocking  death." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  so  .sure  of  that,  you  know. 
Ho  was  over  the  glacier  and  gone  in  a  moment.  I 
don't  suppose  he  had  even  time  for  speculation 
on  his  coming  (iito.  But  Lord  Xorliam  felt  the 
blow  terriljly ;  and  this  follow,  Eric — Keir  he  was 
called  then,  as  of  course  you  are  aware — who 
was  making  a  little  tour  in  the  United  States  with 
mo — why,  from  the  time  we  heard  the  news  all 
our  fun  was  over.  I  never  saw  a  man  more  done 
in  my  life." 

"  I  suppose  he  was  very  much  attached  to  his 
brother." 

"They  are,  without  exception,  the  most  at- 
tached family  I  ever  knew.  Muiraven  has  only 
one  brother  left  now — Cecil,  and  he  is  to  be  mar- 
ried this  season.  I  don't  know  what  Lord  Nor- 
ham  would  do  if  my  friend  were  to  go  in  double 
harness  also.  Yet  ho  onf/ht  to  do  it,  you  know — 
being  heir  to  the  title — oughtn't  he  ?  " 

"Doubtless  he  will  in  time,"  she  answers, 
coldly. 

"I'm  afraid  not  —  at  least  there  seems  no 
likelihood  of  it  at  present.  AVe  call  h/Ti  Banquo 
at  our  club ;  he  always  looks  so  gloomy  in  a  ball- 
room. He  is  by  no  means  what  the  Yankees 
call  a  '  gay  and  festive  cuss,'  Mrs.  Mordaunt." 

She  makes  no  reply,  but  plucks  the  mara- 
bout trimming  off  the  heading  of  her  fan,  and 
scatters  it  carelessly  about  the  floor. 

"  But  he's  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,"  con- 
tinues  Mr.  Holmes,  warming  up  at  the  sight  of 
herapparent  indifTcrence ;  "the most  kind-heart, 
ed,  generous,  and  (when  he  chooses  to  come  out 
of  his  shell)  one  of  the  cleverest  men  I  ever  met 
with." 

"  A  paragon,  in  fact,"  ^ 


'111 

m 


106 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


*'  How  cj'iiical  you  arc !  You  arc  linighing  at 
my  eiithusiasiii.  Now  I  slmll  not  say  another 
word  about  liiin ;  I)ut  tshould  you  ever  happen 
to  be  thrown  in  liis  way,  you  will  acknowleilj^o 
that  I  am  rij^ht.  Here  conios  your  husband 
nf;ain.  I  trust  he  is  not  going  to  drag  me  away 
from  paradise  to  purgatory." 

"Holmes,  you  must  ?peak  to  your  friind. 
IIo  insists  upon  leaving  tlio  ballroom,  and  his 
departure  will  consign  half  the  damsels  of  Glot- 
tonbury  to  despair." 

"  Just  like  Muiraven.  No  one  has  ever  been 
able  to  keep  him  on  duty  for  more  than  an  hour. 
But  I  will  go  and  reason  with  him.  This  is  not 
pleasure,  but  business.  IIo  will  ruin  my  reputa- 
tion with  my  lady  constituents." 

"  riiilip,  might  I  go  home  ?  I  have  such  a 
dreadful  headache,"  pleads  Irene,  as  the  new  mem- 
ber disappears. 

"  Certainly,  my  darling,  if  you  wish  it.  It 
must  be  stupid  work  looking  on ;  but  you  are  a 
good  girl  to  have  done  as  I  asked  you.  I  will  go 
and  tell  Isabella  you  are  ready." 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  to  disturb  her  if  she  is  en- 
joying herself." 

"  She  is  03  tired  as  you  are.  Besides,  she 
could  hardly  wait  for  me.  I  cannot  leave  until 
the  very  last."  And  he  fetches  his  sister,  and 
takes  them  down  to  the  carriage  together. 

"  You  are  very  silent,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,"  ob- 
Berves  Isabella,  as  they  arc  driving  homeward. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  the  entertainment  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me,  please.  I  was  in  pain 
from  the  first  moment  to  the  last.  I  have  no 
wish  to  think  of  it  at  all,"  she  answers,  in  a  tone 
BufiScicnt  to  make  Miss  Mordaunt  hold  her  tongue 
until  they  stand  in  the  lighted  hall  of  Fen  Court. 
There  the  ghastly  pallor  of  her  sister-in-law's 
face  strikes  hor,  and  she  cannot  refrain  from  ob- 
serving : 

"  Why,  surely  you  must  be  ill.  I  never  saw 
you  look  so  white  before." 

"  I  am  ill,  Isabella,  I  have  been  so  all  the 
evening ;  and,  now  the  excitement  is  over,  I  sup- 
pose I  look  worse." 

"Do  let  me  g( ":  you  something,"  urges  her  com- 
panion, with  more  interest  than  she  is  in  the 
habit  of  expressing. 

"  No,  thank  you,  dear.  No  medicine  will  do 
me  any  good.  All  that  I  want  is  rest — rest !  " 
And  with  a  quiet  "  good-night,"  Irene  drags  her- 
self wearily  up  the  staircase,  and  enters  her  own 
room.  Phoebe  is  waiting  to  disrobe  her  mistress, 
and  she  permits  the  girl  to  perform  all  the  offices 
Ecedful  for  her  toilet  without  the  exchange  of  a 


single  cyllablo — a  most  unusual  proceeding  on  l,, 
j.art — and  appears  barely  capable  of  tnuu( iitii; 
the  word  of  dismi.ssal  which  shall  rid  her  of  i!, 
servant's  presence.  But  when  she  is  at  h.- 
alone,  she  finds  an  infinite  relief  in  the  mere  fact  | 
and,  laying  both  her  arms  upon  the  dri.<,<iii;. 
talde,  bends  down  her  tearless  face  upon  ibin 
and  remains  wrapt  in  silent  thought. 

Colonel  Mordaunt,  retfrning  home  at  aljoi;:! 
four   o'clock  in   the  morning,  scales  the  stair.  | 
without  his  boots,  takes  three  minutes  clo-ii,; 
his  drcsbing-room  door,  for  fear  that  it  slioulii 
slam,  and,  finally,  having  extinguished  the  c.ind!:| 
creeps  to  bi'd  like  a  mouse,  lest  he  should  roi;.- 
his  wife,  and  for  all  his  pains  is  saluted  by  iL.| 
words,  "  Is  that  you,  Vhilip  ?     I  am  so  glad  v, 
arc  come,"  in  a   voice  that  sounds   drcailfulh 
wide  awake. 

"  Whj-,  Irene ;  not  asleep !     How  is  this  ?" 

"  I  cannot  sleep,  Philip.  I  have  been  listo;. 
ing  for  your  footsteps :  »  wanted  to  see  you  ai. 
speak  to  you.  0  Philip,  do  tell  me.  Havel 
made  you  happy  ? " 

She  has  turned  round  on  her  pillow,  and  ml 
up  in  bed,  and  is  straining  her  eyes  in  expoctatic:! 
of  his  answer  as  though  she  could  read  his  faj 
ures,  even  in  the  dark. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  feels  his  way  round  to  Ik;  I 
side  of  the  bed,  and  folds  her  tenderly  in  I.ifi 
arms. 

"  My  dearest  Irene,  what  a  question  !    J/ii;'i 
me  ha/ipi/  I    Why,  what  had  I  in  the  wide  worldl 
before  you  came?    You  have  glorified  my  liii[ 
for  me." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !  I  am  so  glad  !  "  ski 
murmurs,  as  she  puts  her  head  down  on  hi.| 
shoulder,  and  begins  to  cry. 

"  My  darling,  what  is  the   matter  ?    Do  ! 
me  send  for  Robertson.    I  am  sure  you  are  ill.'l 

"  Oh,  no.  I  am  better  now.  If  I  were  surJ 
that  I  made  you  happy,  Phllip^-quite,  quite  hat  I 
py,  I  should  have  so — so^much  peace." 

"  But  you  do  make  me  happy,  Irene.  No  oii;| 
could  make  me  happier.  This  is  mere  cxciiej 
ment,  my  dear.  You  must  be  feverish — or  lii-l 
any  one  been  worrying  you  ?  " 

"If  I  believed,"  she  goes  on,  without  noticiEl 
his  question,  "  that  I  had  always  done  my  dutjl 
to  you,  even  in  thought,  and  that  you  knew  it.f 
and  were  ossured  that,  whatever  happened,  il 
could  never  be  otherwise,  and  that,  if  I  did  fail 
it  would  be  circumstantial — so  very  clrcumstaii-l 
tial— " 

"  I  am  assured  of  it,  my  child :  I  only  wish  1| 
were  as  sure  that  I  had  made  you  happy." 


AFTER  THE   BALL. 


10< 


am  so  glad  I "  m 
head  down  on  hll 


s  on,  without  noticiK 
always  done  my  dm; 
id  that  you  knew  i!,l 
whatever  happened,  ii 
,nd  that,  if  I  did  failj 
— so  very  elrcunistaii> 

child :  I  only  wish  1] 
de  you  happy." 


"  0  Philip,  you   arc  so  gooJ ;   you   aiu  so 

good ! " 

"  I  am  not  good,  Irene.     Wliut  you  ciill  good- 
ness is  pure  love  for  you.     But  I  liuow  tlmt  even 
love,  liowover  uuselfisli,  is  not  aiwaj-s  suDieiuiit 
to  fill  up  1  woman's  life,  and  tliut  I  Lave  labored 
under  lieavy  disadvantages,  not  only  beeause  I 
lam  so  mucli  older  than  yourself,  and  so  little  cal- 
iilateJ  to  take  your  fancy,  but  also  beeause  you 
mo  to  mo   with  a  heart  not  altogether  free. 
lut  Tou  were  frank  with  me,  my  darling,  and  I 
luvcd  TOU  so  much,  I  hoped  in  time  that  the  old 
ivound  would  be  healed." 

She  gives  two  or  three  gasping  little  sobs  at 
his  allusion,  but  there  is  no  otiier  answer  t.)  it. 

"  But  if  I  see  you  subject  to  these  fits  of  mel- 
iticlioly,"  he  continues,  gravely,  as  he  presses  her 
itill  closer  in  his  arms,  "  I  shall  begin  to  fear  that 
iiiv  hopes  were  all  in  vain,  and  that  I  have  no 
lowcr  to  fill  up  the  void  that — " 

You  have — in(.eed  you  havj,"  she  utt>  is, 
(araestly.  "  Phil-p,  I  never  want  any  one  but 
■ou." 

"I  hope  not,  my  dear.  Then  why  those 
;ear3 » " 

"Idoa't  know.    I  felt  depressed;  and  you 
ore  away.     Oh,  don't  leave  me  again.    Always 
;ep  by  my  side — close,  close  to  me ;  and  let  us 
itop  at  homo  together,  and  never  go  out  anywhere. 
|t  is  all  so  hollow  and  unsatisfactory." 

"  AVhat  a  picture,  my  darling !  Why,  you  arc 
lore  upset  than  I  thought  for  Fancy  an  old  fel- 
m  like  rac  marrying  such  a  pretty  girl  as  this, 
Ind  keeping  her  all  to  himself,  shut  up  in  his 
lastle,  like  the  ogres  of  old !  What  would  the 
orld  say  ?  " 

"Ob,  never  mind  the  world.  I  love  you, 
'bilip,  and  I  hate  balls  and  parties.  Promise 
le  I  shall  never  go  to  any  of  them  again." 
"  It  would  bo  very  silly  of  mc  to  give  you 
ich  a  promise.  But  you  shall  not  go  if  you 
lon't  wish  it,  and  particularly  if  the  excitement 
13  such  an  effect  upon  you." 
She  clings  to  him  and  thanks  him  ;  and  he  kiss- 
aad  blesses  her,  and,  imagining  that  the  worst 
over,  lays  her  down  upon  her  pillow  (not  quite 
[willingly,  be  it  said,  for  the  poor  old  colonel 
very  sleepy),  and  proceeds  to  occupy  his  own 
irtion  of  the  bed.  But  he  has  not  been  asleep 
aj  before  he  is  aroused  by  something  audible, 
'hich  in  the  confusion  of  his  awakening  sounds 
!ry  like  another  sob, 
"  Irene,  is  that  you  ?  What  w  the  matter  ?  " 
repeats,  almost  irritably.  It  is  provoking  to 
shaken  out  of  slumber  by  the  obstinacy  of 


|)ei)i)le  who  will  not  sen  the  necessity  of  skvp  in 
the  same  light  as  we  do. 

"  What  is  the  matter  y  "  reitiTatos  tiie  colonel : 
but  all  is  silence.  He  stretches  out  his  han<l 
toward  his  wife's  pillow,  and,  passing  it  from  her 
shoulder  upward,  lights  upon  her  hair.  She  is 
lying  on  her  face. 

"  Irene,"  he  whimpers  softly. 

There  is  no  answer.  She  niuyt  bo  asleep.  It 
is  only  his  fancy  tluit  he  heard  her  sob.  And  so 
the  good  colonel  turns  round  upon  the  other 
side,  and  is  soon  lost  to  all  things  visible. 

But  she  lies  there  in  the  darkness,  wide  awake 
and  silent,  overcome  by  a  trembling  horror  that 
she  cannot  quell.  For  all  the  shame  and  confu- 
sion and  repentance  that  have  overtaken  her, 
arise  from  but  one  cause — the  fatal  knowledge 
that  she  has  deceived  herself. 

All  the  good  fabric,  built  up  of  eonvitlion 
and  control,  which  for  two  long  years  has  been 
reared  upon  her  prayers  and  earnest  desire  to  be 
cured,  has  crumbled  before  an  interview  that 
lasted  fifteen  minutes.  She  has  never  met  Eric 
Keir  since  the  fatal  day  on  which  she  learned  he 
had  deceived  her  till  this  night ;  and,  though  she 
still  knows  him  to  be  unworthy,  believes  him  to 
be  false — though  f^hc  despises  liim  and  hates  her- 
self, she  cannot  shut  her  eyes  to  the  stern  truth 
— she  fovea  him  still ! 

Colonel  Mordaunt  comes  down-stairs  next 
morning  in  the  best  of  si)irits.  lie  seems  to 
have  forgotten  the  little  episode  that  occurred  be- 
tween Irene  and  himself  the  night  before,  and 
can  talk  of  nothing  but  the  ball  and  the  supper 
and  the  company,  and  the  general  success  of  the 
whole  entertainment. 

"  It  was  certainly  a  very  happy  thought,"  he 
says,  "  and  the  prettiest  compliment  possible  to 
Mr.  Holmes,  They  tell  mc  Sir  Samuel  originated 
the  idea,  and,  if  so,  I  give  him  great  credit,  I 
don't  think  I  ever  saw  so  many  of  the  county 
families  assembled  before,  unless  it  was  at  the 
subscription  ball  we  gave  on  ,the  occasion  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales's  marriage.  There  were  several 
people  there  I  had  not  shaken  hands  with  for 
years ;  Sir  John  Coote  among  the  number. — Was 
Sir  John  introduced  to  you,  Irene  ?  " 

"  Xo.    What  is  ho  like  »  " 

"  An  elderly  man,  my  dear,  rather  bald,  but 
with  a  fine,  upright  figure.  Was  one  of  the  stew- 
ards, you  know  ;  had  a  rosette  in  his  button-hole, 
the  same  as  myself.  Holmes  is  staying  with  him ; 
so  is  Lord  Muiraven,  Sir  John  thinks  very  high- 
ly of  Holmes ;  says  he's  quite  the  right  man  for 


..■,ta 


:i 


i: 


108 


'NO  INTENTIONS.' 


the  borough,  nnd  inteinld  to  lay  that  vexed  ques- 
tion of  the  railway  nioiiojiolization  bel'ore  Pailia- 
meiit  nt  the  earliest  opportunity.  JJy-tlie-wiiy,  I 
introduced  Ilolines  to  you.  What  do  you  tliiiik 
of  him  ?     Was  he  pleasant  V  " 

"  Very  much  so.  lie  talks  well,  too;  n  *///<• 
qua  lion  in  his  profession." 

"  What  did  he  talk  about  ?  " 

"  I  forget,"  commenees  Irene ;  nnd  then, 
blushing  hastily,  "  Oh,  no,  I  don't.  He  talked 
chiefly  of  his  friend  Muiraven,  and  of  his  brother 
being  lost  while  on  an  Alpine  tour  last  summer." 

"  Ah,  a  sad  catastrophe.  Sir  John  mentioned 
it  to  me.  By-the-waj-,  I  was  greatly  taken  by 
Lord  Muiraven's  face.  Very  thoughtful  for  so 
young  a  man.  Is  he  what  the  women  call  good- 
looking,  Irene  ?  " 

"  I  should  ipiagine  so. — What  do  you  think, 
Isabella  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  I  never  looked 
— that  is  to  say,  how  could  I  be  any  judge — but 
then,  of  course — and  if  you  consider  him  hand- 
some— " 

"  I  never  said  so,"  .ihc  answers,  wearily,  and 
turns  toward  Tommy  as  a  distraction.  The  child's 
violet  eyes  meet  hers  sympathetically. 

"  Mamma  got  bad  head  ?  "  ho  incjuires,  in  u. 
little,  piping  voice. 

"  He  has  very  remarka  jle  eyes,"  continues 
the  colonel,  still  harping  on  Muiraven's  attributes, 
"  and  finely-cut  features. — By-the-wny,  Irene,  that 
efiild  has  fine  eyes.  I  never  noticed  them  be- 
fore." 

"  Oh,  all  children  have  big  eyes,"  she  says, 
confusedly;  "and  so  have  kittens  and  puppies. 
He  won't  have  largo  eyes  when  he  grows  up. — 
You  have  finished  your  breakfast,  Tommy.  Say 
your  grace,  and  run  away  into  the  garden." 

"  But  I  want  more,"  urges  Tommy. 

"Then  take  it  with  you.  You'd  spend  a 
couple  of  hours  over  each  meal,  if  I  allowed  you 
to  do  so." 

"  My  dear,  we  have  not  been  seated  here  more 
than  twenty  minutes." 

"  Never  mind  !  Let  him  go — ^hc  can  take 
another  roll  with  him." 

"  Does  he  worry  you,  Irene  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  tired,  and  when  one  is  tired  the 
prattle  of  a  child  is  apt  to  worry.  Besides,  he 
is  happier  in  the  garden  than  here." 

"  He  has  certainly  beautiful  eyes,"  repeats  the 
colonel,  as  the  child  runs  away,  "  and  has  much 
improved  in  appearance  lately.  Talking  of  Lord 
Muiraven,  Irene,  reminds  me  that  Sir  John  asked 
me  to  go  over  to  Shfublands  to  luncheon  to-day. 


Very  kind  of  him,  wasn't  it  *     lie  saw  I  m  , 
taken  with  his  guests.'' 

"  Sir  John  Coote  owes  you  a  debt  of  gratitu;. 
for  the  manner  in  which  you  keep  up  the  com,; 
pack.  I  don't  think  a  luncheon  is  any  tliiiii;,  ■ 
of  t!io  way  for  him  to  give  you.  Doubtlcr's  In- 
only  too  glad  to  have  nn  opportunity  of  Klujwi:.. 
you  any  politeness." 

"  That  is  a  wife's  view  to  take  of  the  m',:^\ 
tion,  Irene.     Now  I,  on  the  contrary,  was  t/. 
only  pleased,  but  surprised  ;  for  Coote  and  I  liati| 
not  been  the  friendliest  of  neighbors    hiilicn, 
nnd  it  has  vexed  me." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  are  going  ?  " 

"Certainly — unless  there  is  any  reason  that! 
should  remain  at  home.     I  wish  they  had  ask 
you  too.     I  tried  to  get  near  Lady  Coote  for  i:  J 
purpose,  toward  the  end  of  the  evening ;  but : 
was  an  impossibility.     t>ho  was    hemmed  in  1 1 
round,  six  feet  deep,  by  a  phalanx  of  downger- 

"I  am  so  glad  you  failed,  Thilip.     I  co. 
not  have  accompanied  you.     I  am  far  too  tiiei.  i 

"  Then  it's  all  right,  my  darling ;  and  I » 1 
leave  you  to  recover  yourself  during  my  absence  j 

lie   comes   back  just    half  an   hour  bcfoil 
dinner-time,  if  possible   more  enthusiastic 
before. 

"Never  met  with  n  more  amiable  young  nii:| 
than  Mr.  Holmes  in  the  whole  course  of  my  exkl 
encc.    And  so  sensible,  too.    Enters  as  clearF 
and  readily  into  the  question  of  the  Glottonbur 
drainage  as  tl.orgh  he  had  spent  his  life  in  a  sene: 
We  shall  get  on  w^ith  such  an  advocate  as  tliJ 
Having  been   settled  for  so  many  years  in  i-\ 
county,  ho  was  pleased  to  ask  my  advice  up : 
several  evils  he  desires  to  see  remedied ;  and  1 
gave  him  all  the  information  I  could  in  so  limitel 
a  time.    I  am  vexed  that,  in  consequence  of  Li 
being  obliged  to  leave  the  day  after  to-morro'I 
he  was   unable  to  spare  us  a  few  days  at  Ft'l 
Court." 

"  Did  you   ask   him  ? ''  says  Irene.     Slie : 
lying  on  the  couch  in  her  bedroom  while  her  htJ 
band  talks  to  her,  and  as  she  puts  the  qucsti«| 
she  raises  herself  to  a  sitting  posture. 

"  I  did — urged  it  upon  him,  in  fact ;  but  1 
was  quite  unable  to  accept  the  invitation.  Jlti 
aven  will,  though."  ■ 

"  Who?" 

"Lord  Muiraven.  His  time  is  his  own, at! 
he  seems  very  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  sec  i 
little  more  of  the  county." 

"  You  have  asked  him  here  /  " 

"  Where  else  could  I  ask  him  ?    I  am  saH 


LORD  MUIRAVEXS  VISIT. 


100 


t  ?     lie  saw  I  w.l 


time  is  his  own,  atl 
opportunity  to  see  | 

sk  him  ?    I  nm  8Ui< 


foii  "ill  liivc  him  iniini'n.soly — you  have  no  idea 
jiott-  Hill  ho  can  talk — anil  his  coiiii)nny  will  en- 
liven us.  I  invited  him  to  stay  as  lung  as  he 
Ihiise;  but  he  limitii  his  visit  to  a  few  days.  Let 
liim  have  the  best  bedroom,  Irene.  I  .should 
\\ih  Iiim  to  bo  made  as  comfortable  as  possible." 

Her  brows  are  contracted — her  breast  is 
liciving — her  eyes  are  staring  at  him  nnL;rily. 

"And  what  on  earth  made  you  think  of  ask- 
In?  him?" 

"  My  dear  I  " 

"Of  asking  a  perfect  stranger,"  she  goes  on 
Lpidly — "a  man  we  care  nothing  for — whom 
kou  never  set  eyes  upon  till  yesterday — to  become 
one  of  us — to  share  our  home — to — to — I  never 
lllioiight  you  could  be  sueh  a  fool  I  " 

Colonel  Mordaunt  is  more  than  slioeked — lie 
i  ariRry. 

"What  do  you  moan  by  speaking  to  me  in 
Jhat  way,  Irene  ! " 

"Oh!  I  was  wrong — I  know  I  was  wrong; 
tut  yon  have  "n«Pt  me  with  this  news.  Am  I 
liut  the  mistress  of  this  house? — have  I  not  a 
ri"lit  to  be  consulted  in  sueh  matters  ? — to  have 
voice  in  the  selection  of  who  shall  and  who 
^'iiil  not  enter  our  doors  ?  " 

"When  you  beliave  as  you  are  doing  now, 
lou  forfeit,  in  my  estimation,  all  right  to  sueh 
tonsidcration." 

"  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  have  used  that  word  to 

lou,  Philip — it  was  very  disrespectful  of  me,  and 

beg  your  pardon.    But,  if  you  love  me,  don't 

bk  Lord  Muiraven  to   come   and   stay  at  Fen 

pourt." 

"What  possible  objection  can  you  have  to  the 
Iroceeding  ?  " 

"We  know  so  little  of  him,"  ?hc  murmurs 
Indistinctly. 

"  Quite  enough  to  author!:  ->  a  casual  visit, 
lach  as  ho  intends  to  pi.y  us.  I  do  not  suppose, 
from  what  he  said,  thai  he  will  remain  here  more 
|han  two  or  three  days." 

"  A  man  may  make  himself  very  disagreeable 
Ivcn  in  that  time." 

"But  what  reason  have  you  to  suppose  Muir- 
kven  will  do  so  ?  I  never  met  a  fellow  better  cal- 
pulated  to  make  his  way  at  first  sight.  You  are 
bcomprehonsible  to  me,  Irene  I  No  trouble  ap- 
|)ear3  too  great  for  you  to  take  for  a  '  ne'cr-do- 
ireel '  like  Oliver  Ralston,  or  a  child  who  has  no 
llaim  upon  you,  like  Tommy  Brown:  and  yet, 
poff  when  I  wish  to  introduce  into  the  house  a 
bian  unexceptionable  in  name,  birth,  character, 
knd  position,  you  raise  puerile  objections,  simply, 
h  it  appears  to  me,  to  give  annoyance." 


"  I  havo  not  lieon  in  the  habit  of  givinv;  ynu 
annoyance,  JMiilip." 

"  No,  darling  !  of  course  not ;  but  in  tliis  in. 
stance  you  are  most  unreasonable.  Do  you  not 
begin  to  see  so?  " 

"  If  it  is  tmrcasonable  for  a  wife  to  wish  to  bo 
consulted  before  her  husband  takes  any  step  of 
importance,  it  may  be  the  case." 

"Step  of  importance! — stufT  and  nonsense  1 
What  do  you  call,  then,  bringing  u  beggar's  brat 
into  the  house  to  be  reared  as  yo\ir  own  son  ? 
You  didn't  stop  to  consult  me  before  you  pledged 
yourself  to  that  undertaking,  Irene!" 

He  turns  away,  puzzled  and  irritated  by  her 
conduct,  and  she  sees  that  she  has  played  a  wrong 
card.  If  the  evil  that  assails  her  is  to  bo  averted, 
it  is  not  by  threatening  or  complaint.  She  tries 
the  female  remedy  of  coaxing. 

"  rhilip,  dear  !  "  putting  her  arnis  about  him, 
"  don't  ask  Lord  Muiraven  to  come  here." 

" AVhy  ?  " 

"  Because  I — I  don't  like  him." 

"  For  what  reason  ?  " 

"  IIow  can  I  give  a  reason  ?  "  impetuourily. 
"  It  is  not  always  one  can  say  why  One  does  or 
does  not  like  a  person.  I  donU  like  him — that's 
sufficient !  " 

"  For  you,  perhaps,  my  dear — but  not  for  me. 
It  is  useless  to  say, 'don't  ask  Lord  Muiraven,' 
because  I  have  already  asked  him,  and  he  has  ac- 
cepted the  invitation.  Nothing  remains  but  for 
you  to  play  hostess  as  agreeably  as  you  can  to 
him;  and  I  trust,"  adds  the  colonel,  gravel.v, 
"  that,  for  my  sake,  and  for  your  own,  you  will  do 
your  utmost  to  make  our  guest's  stay  here  as 
pleasant  as  may  be." 

"  You  must  do  that,"  she  returns,  shortly, 
"  lie  is  not  my  guest,  and  I  have  no  wish  he 
should  be  so.  You  must  take  the  charge  of  him 
and  of  his  pleasure  yourself.  I  decline  to  share 
in  it." 

"Very  well,  my  dear — be  it  so,"  replies  her 
husband  coldly,  as  he  rises  to  leave  her.  "  I  hope 
you  will  think  better  of  your  inhospitable  resolu- 
tion ;  but  if  not,  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  equal  to  the 
occasion.  However,  the  spirit  it.  which  you  re- 
ceive my  caution  confirms  me  in  one  thing — Lord 
Muiraven's  visit  to  Fen  Court  shall  sot  be  put  oiT, 
if  I  can  avoid  it." 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

In  the  evening  she  makes  another  attempt. 

"  Philip !  pray  do  not  bring  Lord  Muiraven  tc 
our  house  :  I  ask  it  of  you  as  a  favor." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  wheels  round  on  his  chair 
(he  has  been  writing  letters  at  his  study-table, 


;ii 


M 


110 


"NO   lyTENTIOXS." 


i: 


I  tc 


S   t! 


wlillo  Hho  hU«  bL'siitle  him  reading  one  of  MiiUiu's 
InHt  inii)0!  tatioiii*),  and  sfnrt'S  nt  lii.s  wifu  in  wn- 
li'ij,'iie(l  siiri)rlHO, 

"Tiii.-t  is  tlie  most  cxtraonliimry  tiling'  I  over 
know  in  my  lilc  !  "  lio  cxoiaim.-'.  "  I'riiy  wiicrc, 
and  uiidiT  wliiit  firi'um.-'tancc'rt,  liuvc  you  nii't  willi 
Lord  Miiinivcn  btfore  ?  " 

At  tliis  i)oin(-biiinl{  (iiU'Stion,  so  suddon  and 
BO  '•.nc'X|)cetP(l,  Irene  naturiiliy  loses  somuwlmt  of 
lier  confldenee. 

"Mil  him  brforr !  AVlio  says  I  liavo  done 
80  ?  " 

"  Xo  one  lays  it ;  but  no  one  could  help  iufcr- 
riiij;  it.  Your  evident  aversion  to  his  becoming 
our  guest  must  have  its  root  in  something  deeper 
tluiu  a  mere  dislilie,  spontaneously  conceived,  for 
a  stranger  who  has  not  tal<eu  your  fancy  nt  first 
si-ht !  " 

"  One  has  at  times  presentiments  of  evil,"  she 
replies  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I'resentiments  of  fiddlesticks!  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  presentiments  at  all,  in  the  first  place, 
iind  certainly  not  in  those  that  come  over  one  nt 
!i  Ijnll.  But  what  may  your  evil  presentiment 
tend  to  ?  " 

"  That  Lord  Muiraven's  presence  at  Fen  Court 
will  create  dissension  between  us." 

"  In  what  way  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know  in  what  way ;  but  I — I  don't 
like  him,  and  you  evidently  do — and  the  mere  dif- 
ference of  opinion  may  bo  the  cause  of  a  quar- 
rel." 

"  I  don't  sec  that !  I  don't  like  many  people 
that  you  do — yet  wc  do  not  squabble  about  them 
— your  nameless  7}C0%e,  for  instance — " 

"  Unfortunate  little  being !  Cannot  nny  topic 
be  introduced  between  us  without  dragging  him  in 
by  the  neck  and  shoulders  ?  " 

"  Hardly,  when  the  topic  is  one  of  diversity 
of  opinion  concerning  another,  and  when  I  feel 
that  you  owe  me  a  concession,  Irene.  For  I  have 
given  up  more  of  my  own  idea  of  what  is  consist- 
ent and  becoming,  in  permitting  you  to  adopt  that 
child,  than  you  seem  to  be  aware  of." 

"  Oh !  let  it  pass,  then— I  concede  every  thing. 
I  resign  my  own  opinion  on  the  subject  of  Lord 
Muiraven  staying  with  us." 

"  Had  you  done  so  or  not,  my  dear,  it  would 
liavo  made  no  difference  to  the  fact,  which,  as  I 
said  this  afternoon,  is  already  an  established  one. 
But  I  am  ready  to  allow  that  I  prefer  your  going 
hand-in-hand  with  me  in  this,  as  in  all  matters,  to 
attempting  any  thing  like  a  defiance  of  my  wishes. 
So  I  trust  wc  have  safely  tided  over  this  little 
difficulty,  and  that  when  Lord  Muiraven  appears 


among  us  he  will  find  hiii  hoiitesg  as  ready 
welcome  him  us  I  sliall  be." 

"  It  is  \itter  bad  taste  on  liis  part,  coiiiinjr 
ail,  without  some  intimation  on  mine  tliat  I. 
visit  is  desired." 

"At  it  again,  Irene!"  snya  the  eolond, witl.l 
sigh,  as  he  returns  to  his  pnpers.     "  Well,  I  mu-  f 
totally  refuse  to  eontiiiuo  the  discussion  wiiii  v.. 
As  long  as  I  am  master  of  Fen  Court,  my  »;; 
here  must  be  law." 

Which  is  a  maxim  the  good  man  is  very  for.;! 
of  repeating,  little  dreaming  the  while,  that  ol'il 
the  inmates  of  the  Court,  he  1ms  his  way  pcrliap, 
the  least  of  any. 

She  has  done  every  tiling  that  ^hc  dares  J: 
order  to  prevent  Eric  Keir  being  thrown  in  1.  : 
society  ogain  ;  but  Iut  efTorts  have  proved  fiitil, 
and  she  becomes  despondent.  Yet  she  is  r. 
solved  of  one  thing  :  the  new  guest  shall  ram 
nothing  at  her  hands  but  the  barest  courtesy.  I: 
after  all  that  has  passed,  he  is  suflicicntly  dcvo:; 
of  feeling  and  good  taste  to  force  himself  intok 
presence,  she  will  make  him  conscious  that  it  !• 
unwelcome  to  her ;  she  will  be  his  hostess,  aol 
nothing  furtlier.  Never  again  shall  the  hand  I 
the  mnn  who  betrayed  poor  Myra  and  trifled  wi;: 
herself  touch  hers  in  friendship  and  good-fel!o»- 
ship.  Armed  with  this  resolve  (which  pride  an: 
the  roraembrnncc  of  her  bitter  pain  alone  cod: 
enable  her  to  fulfill),  Irene  receives  Lord  5Iui: 
aven  on  the  day  of  his  arrival  at  Fen  Court  wilt. 
degree  of  dignity  and  coldness  she  has  never  a-- 
Bumcd  to  any  one  before. 

Her  husband,  who  has  met  him  at  the  hall- 
door,  brings  him  with  some  trepidation  to  \l> 
drawing-room,  to  be  presented  to  a  beautlK 
statue,  who,  with  features  pale  as  death  and  lip- 
tightly  pressed  together,  acknowledges  the  honoi 
of  his  presence  there  in  chilling  tones,  that  wouli 
have  induced  an  ordinary  visitor  to  return  in  th: 
same  vehicle  in  which  he  came. 

But  Muiraven  knows  the  cause — his  hear 
acknowledges  the  justice  of  the  sentence— an; 
he  replies  so  humbly  to  her  icy  welcome  ao  h;ilf 
to  deprecate  the  anger  that  induced  it. 

Not  so  Colonel  Mordaunt,  who  stands  l]\ 
watching  them,  indignant  that  Irene  should  so 
palpably  disregard  the  warning  he  administerei 
to  her,  and  resolved  to  show  their  guest  double 
the  attention  he  otherwise  should  have  done,  in 
order  to  atone  for  his  wife's  impoliteness. 

He  is  almost  fearful  that  her  contrary  mood 
may  take  the  turn  of  not  considering  Lord  Muir- 
aven's comfort  as  she  should ;  but  here  his  veia- 


TOMMY  AND  THE  STRANT.ER. 


Ill 


i(i.-ti'i»8  ns  ri'inly ' 

liis  imrt,  t'liiiiiiii;  ; 
1  oil  tniiic  tli.it  I., 

IS   tilt'  ColllllfliWill.. 

icrs.  "Well,  I  IK:  I 
(lidcu-'sion  with  y,.. 
Fen  (-'ourt,  my  »;;; 

ml  imin  is  very  foi:;| 
the  while,  that  ofj 
1ms  l.is  way  pei'naj- 


B  that  she  (lores  i:| 
being  thrown  in 
tshiive  proved  futili 
nt.     Yet  she  is  r>.| 
IV  guest  shall  rocoi;!] 
barest  courtesy, 
is  Buflieicntly  dcv!:} 
rorcc  himself  into  lit:| 
I  conscious  that  it : 

be  his  hostess,  anl 
lin  ehall  the  hand  ! 
Myra  and  trifled  wi;- 1 
ship  and  good-fell«« 
Ivc  (which  pride  anil 
ter  pain  alone  coulil 

receives  Lord  5Iui; 
il  at  Fen  Court  witliJ 
;s8  she  has  never  a^l 

met  him  at  the  hat- 
trepidation  to  tbi 
nted  to  a  bcantit'ill 
ule  as  death  and  IIkI 
inowledges  the  homil 
ling  tones,  that  wouli| 
sitor  to  return  in  tk 
T.e. 

he  cause — his  hear 
the  sentence— anil 
icy  welcome  as  hait| 
induced  it. 
int,  who  stands  by  I 
hat  Irene  should  sol 
ling  he  administerei] 
their  guest  double 
hould  have  done,  i!i| 
impoliteness, 
t  her  contrary  mocll 
isidering  Lord  Muit- 
but  here  his  veia] 


lion  docs  her  wrong.  The  diniup  that  follow.-t 
i:is  been  ordered  wltli  consiiininnto  care— every 
Lrran"cment  h  perfect — too  perfect,  indeed,  not 
lo  intiiimte  that  hIio  feels,  and  iiifeiiils  to  main- 
Inin  0  great  distance  between  ln'i'self  and  the 
nan  who  hns  so  suddenly  been   thrown  among 

|hom. 

At  tlio  dinner-table,  Muiraven  and  tlio  colo- 
kel  have  the  converj'ation  all  to  themselves,  for 
Libclla  docs  not  daro  to  speak,  and  Irene  will 
knly  answer  in  monosylIai)lc3.  They  talk  of 
holitios,  and  hunting,  and  agrieultiire,  and  travel ; 
ind  then  they  veer  round  to  the  London  season, 
low  fast  approaching. 

'  Do  you  go  up  to  town  this  year?  "  demands 
lluiraven. 

"I  tliiiik   not.     My  wife  cares    nothing   for 
rnvetv,  and  the  love  for  it  has  mostly  dietl  out  of 
lie;  yet  she  used  to  bo  very  fashionable  before 
\cv  marriage — usedn't  you,  Irene  ?  " 
»  Wonderfully  so." 

"  But  you  have  discovered  the  superiority  of 
i  ([uiet  life,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Mordaunt." 

"  I  have  not  been  out  since  my  mother  died," 
lie  answers,  coldly. 

'But  for  you,"  continues  the  colonel,  in  order 

change  an  unpleasant   topic,  and   addrcHsing 

kiiiraven,  "  the  gay  metropolis  can  hardly  have 

[lit  its  charm.     Are    you  looking  forward  to  a 


[igorous  campaign  ?  " 

"I  shall  not  be  in  town  this  season." 

"Indeed!  you  surprise  me.  With  your  ad- 
iaiitage?,  I  should  have  thought  it  resolved  itself 
|ito  a  very  paradise  of  society." 

"  It  was  so  once." 

"And  how  long  is  it  since  you  turned  mis- 

pthrope,  my  lord  ?  "  says  the  colonel,  laughing 

[eirtily  at  what  he  supposes  to  be  his   guest's 

'cctation,  and  never  expecting  to  receive  a  se- 

|ou3  answer  to  his  query. 

"  Since  two  seasons  ago." 

At  this  juncture  Irene  rises  to  leave  the  room, 
luiraven  holds  the  door  open  and  gazes  enmest- 
'  at  her  as  she  passes  through.  She  chooses 
I  take  his  words  as  covert  insult — his  look  as 
laliee  —  and  answers  both  with  n  flash  of  in- 
Ignant  scorn.  lie  interprets  her  glance  rightly, 
nd  returns  to  his  seat  at  the  dessert-table  with 
I  sigh. 

When  the  gentlemen  rejoin  the  ladies  in  the 

tawing .  room,  Mrs.  Mordaunt   professes  to  be 

«py,  but  rouses  herself  nt  their  entrance,  and 

Irects  her  attention  for  the  remainder  of  the 

fcning  to  the  columns  of  the  Horning  Post. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  is  supremely  vexed  at  her 


behavior,  but  ho  will  not  mention  it  again  to  her  ; 
even  after  he  lias  had  a  ei;,'ar  with  Lord  Miiiravi  ii 
in  the  sinokiiii^'-rooni,  and  parted  with  him  at  his 
bedroom-door,  he  meets  his  wife  in  silence,  and 
still  ill  .Miji'iice  betakes  himself  to  rest.  Only,  her 
condiiet  pu/./.les  as  well  as  vexes  him,  and  his 
curiosity  is  all  on  the  alert ;  while  Irene,  lying 
Bleeples.<<,  revii^ws  again  and  again  the  geeiie  she 
has  passed  through,  and  wonders  if  nho  has  been 
harsh  or  wrong  —  or  could  have  met  Muiraven 
dilfercntly  luid  she  wished  to  do — and  always  ar- 
rives at  the  same  conclusion,  that  while  his  past 
conduct  remains  unexplained,  it  is  impossible  siio 
can  receive  him  as  any  tbiiij»  '.'ut  a  cruel  and  de- 
ceitful foe. 

She  c(  03  down  the  next  morning  with  no 
kindlier  feelings  in  her  lireast  toward  him,  but 
conscious  that  his  presence  is  losing  its  lirst 
strange  sting  for  licr,  and  that  she  shall  be  able 
to  greet  him  with  more  ease  than  she  had  done 
the  day  before. 

As  she  passes  licr  morning -room  she  hears 
the  sound  of  Tommy's  voice  within,  and  enters 
prepared  to  find  him  up  to  mischief  among  her 
ornaments  or  flowers,  for,  like  most  children,  he 
is  of  an  inquiring  turn  of  mind,  and  apt  on  oc- 
casions to  do  great  damage  in  his  researches  nftm- 
the  origin  of  all  he  sees  about  him. 

But  as  she  crosses  the  threshold  she  starts 
back  amazed,  for,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
comfortably  ensconced  in  an  arm-chair,  she  per- 
ceives Lord  Muiraven,  and  on  his  knee,  playing 
with  his  watch  and  chain  and  b.ibbling  of  every 
thing  that  comes  within  the  scope  of  his  horizon, 
ii  Master  Tommy.  They  are  so  engrossed  with 
one  another  that  for  the  moment  they  do  not 
perceive  her. 

"  My  mamma  got  a  tick-tick,"  the  child  is  say- 
ing "  a  very  little  one,  with  white  and  green  stones 
on  his  back.  I  like  my  mamma's  tick-tick ;  but 
he's  too  small  for  a  man.  When  I'm  hlg  man, 
my  mamma  going  to  ("^ivo  mo  hig  tick-tick — my 
mamma  says  so,"  he  winds  up  with  confidently. 

"  And  who  is  your  mamma.  Tommy  ?  "  in- 
quires Muiraven. 

"  Don't  you  know  my  mamma  ?  Good  mam- 
ma, who  loves  Tommy  I  Why  —  why  there  she 
is ! "  exclaims  the  child,  in  a  burst  of  glee,  as  he 
discovers  Irene  standing  in  the  door-way,  and, 
wriggling  off  his  new  friend's  lap,  rushes  noisily 
to  greet  her. 

"  Mrs.  Mordaunt ! "  ejaculates  Muiraven,  as 
he  leaps  up  from  his  position.  "  I  beg  a  thousand 
pardons  ;  I  did  not  perceive  that  you  were  there." 

"  There  is  no  need  to  apologize,"  she  answers 


m 


!T 


'£iJ 


118 


'NO  INTENTIONS.' 


M  colill_v,  t!iou;;h  iiioro  raliiilj',  tlinn  litfori,'. — 
"Toiiwiiy,  Jim  know  ymi  liiive  no  Imsinuds  iu 
thin  room ;  I  linvu  fDrliiildun  yuii  to  comu  hcrv." 

"I'riiy  tlon't  liliinio  tlio  I'liild — it  was  my 
fault ;  tliu  room  looked  ho  cool  uiid  ])lL'nsant,  I 
turned  in  for  luilf  iin  hour's  reading;  Ijcforc  break- 
fast, nnd,  healing;  lii.s  voii'c  iu  tlic  liall,  caliud  hiui 
in,  nnd  wo  liavu  bcuii  iimuHin);  (iuri)t'lvi.'H  udmi- 
ruldy  Hincc." 

"  You  forgot  to  bring  mnnuna  her  roHO  tliin 
inorninfr,  Tommy,"  cays  Irene,  fixing  her  atten- 
tion on  tlic  ehiid.  "Won't  you  go  nnd  pick  her 
one  now  ? " 

"  Ye.^  I  I  go  get  a  bootiful  rose— a  very  big 
one!"  lie  answers',  darting  from  her  side. 

"  Mind  you  put  on  your  hat ! "  she  calld  after 
hirn  into  tlic  hall.  I'oor  JIuiravcn  is  standing  by 
the  windov  nicannhile,  looking  sadly  conscious 
of  not  being  attended  to. 

"A  very  intelligent  little  boy,"  he  8ay.-<,  ijres- 
cntly,  with  o  nervou.s  smile ;  "  what  age  is  he  f  " 

"  Three  and  a  half." 

"Only  three  and  a  half!  why,  he  seems  to 
understand  every  thing.  But — ))ardoa  nie — I 
don't  quite  comprehend  the  relationship  between 
you — a  nephew  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  relationship  between  U3,  except 
that  of  a  common  need.  Tommy  is  my  adopted 
child." 

"  And  you  permit  him  to  call  you  mother  ?  " 

"  No !  I  never  encourage  him  to  call  nic  by 
that  name.  His  mother,"  and  here  Irene  Htops  a 
moment  to  recover  confidence,  "his  mother  is 
gone  from  us  ;  but  he  must  call  mc  by  some  name, 
ond  '  mamma '  is  most  convenient." 

"  And  you  have  adopted  him — how  very  good 
of  you ! "  returns  Muiraven,  musingly.  "  Well  1 1 
should  think  the  little  fellow  would  repay  your 
kindness.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  brighter 
child ;  he  interested  mc  strongly.  And  he  ap- 
pears to  have  so  thorough  and  affectionate  a  rev- 
erence for  you — " 

"Breakfast  is  ready,"  says  Irene,  as  she  cuts 
short  his  eloquence  by  leading  the  way  into  the 
next  apartment. 

Two  or  three  days  pass  in  thj  same  sort  of 
manner ;  outwardly  all  is  well,  though  rather  con- 
strained ;  inwardly  there  is  much  heart-burning 
and  unpleasantness. 

The  stranger  (owing  probably  to  the  hostess's 
evident  avoidance  of  his  company)  has  made 
more  than  one  attempt  to  end  his  visit,  but  Colo- 
nel Mordaunt,  determined  to  show  his  wife  that 
she  cannot  have  every  thing  her  own  way,  refutes 


all  hid  arguments  with  rc.«pret  to  the  advl.s:tl,i||t 
of  leaving  Fen  Court ;  and  Muiraven,  hoping'  p, 
haps  that  time  may  bring   tliu  opportnniiv  1. 1 
coverts  lor  an  explanation  ttith  Irene,  is  notlii:. 
loath  to  linger  on. 

And  so  they  continue  to  meet  nt  bicaktii,;. 
and  luneheon,  and  dinner,  und  lite  is  a  blow  tor 
tiiru  to  her.     l'"or,  since  slic  caught  Muiruvtu  ui..  I 
little  Tommy  in  the  morning-room  together,  a  itr] 
dread  has  sprung  up  in  her  bosom:  the  wond : 
whether  she  will  be  uetiiig  right  iu  keeping' tU I 
knowledge  of  the  relationship  between  tinm  i| 
secret  from  the  father.     The  horror  with  win 
her  soul  recoils  from  the  fhiime  of  making  m^. 
a  communication  is  almost  swallowed  up  iu  iL.  I 
jiain  with  which  she  contemiilutcs  a  parting  fr  t| 
the  child.     Until  she  felt  it,  hlio  could  not  liiu 
believed  that  in  so  short  a  time  he  would  li.j. 
wound  himself  so  closely  round  her  heart.   T  | 
give  up  little  Tommy  ! — to  miss  his  dear  liii 
voice  calling  after  her  oil  over  the  hou,<c ;  1 
lisping  words ;  his  childish  carciises — the  idm  . 
misery.    She  could  hardly  shrink  from  it  tiK 
were  he  indeed  her  own.   But  yet,  who  has  llie  1  ■ 
ter  riglit  to  him,  on  whom  has  he  tiie  higlier  elaii:  I 

Is  she  injuring  the  boy's  pro-^pects  by  kci:.| 
ing  from  him  the  protection  of  so  influentiui . 
father ;  or  would  the  fact  of  his  parentage  tcl 
Lord  Muiraven's  heart  against  the  child  ?— acl 
she  would  lose  him  only  to  see  him  turned  ovt; 
to  the  care  of  hirelings — brought  up  among  tli: 
as  such  unhappy  children  generally  arc,  w  itliK;| 
one  of  those  advantages  which  it  is  in  her  povcl 
as  it  is  her  wish,  to  give  him.     Will  such  a  liin 
covcry  do  her  darling  harm,  or  will  it  do  Li 
good  ?    This  is  the  thought  that  harasses  luiJ 
now,  and  adds  gravity  and  depression  to  her  f(;[ 
mcr  coldness  of  demeanor.    The  change  'n  tx 
palpable  not  to  strike  Colonel  Mordaunt,  but  L I 
docs  not  shape  his  suspicions  into  facts  until  M.-[ 
Quekett  is  good  enough  to  aid  him. 

"  Your  good  lady  don't  look  much  lattljl 
does  she  ? "  she  remarks  casually,  as  she  is  gati-l 
cring  up  the  money  for  the  weekly  bills,  aliii(s| 
the  only  phase  of  the  house-keeping  departmc;: 
which  remains  in  her  hands. 

"  In  what  way,  Quekett  ?  "  demands  the  ctiht 
nel,  as  he  enters  the  amount  in  his  ledger.  "  Miil 
Mordaunt  is  quite  well,  I  believe ;  at  least,  Ibavi| 
heard  nothing  to  the  contrary." 

"Oh  1  I  don't  mean  in  health  exactly,  tbou;:| 
she's  been  going  off  in  her  looks  too  during  tLil 
last  few  months ;  but  her  spirits  are  lower  lliJi 
usual ;  surely  she's  shut  up  in  her  room  one  lialf| 
of  the  day,  and  terrible  mopy  when  she's  about " 


UXnAPPY  SUSPICIONS. 


113 


V "  dcmancls  the  co!o-| 
tin  his  ledger.  "Miil 
ilieve ;  at  least,  I  bavi| 

lealth  exactly,  tlioui 
looks  too  during  tli 
ipirita  are  lower  tlu 
in  her  room  one  IwHI 
pywhen  sbe's  about" 


"  I  think  you  n.uitt  be  luistalteu,  Qiukott ;  ^lic 
w,i.H  never  wbiU  is  termed  boisti'iously  itieliiutl, 
tml  I  believe  bIio  was  ratlier  put  out  at  uiy  invit- 
ill '  Lord  Muiraveii  to  tiie  house — " 

"Ah!  why  Hliouid  hIio  oltjeet  to  iiliii,  now? 
A  line  young  nuin  ai*  ever  i  ciiw  !  Moat  hulies 
would  be  proud  of  Hueh  a  coiiipanion— uuU'Sh,  ht- 
,la"J,  tliere':*  a  reason  lor  it !  " 

"  What  reuHou  eould  tiiere  he 't "  ,xiiyi  the 
colonel,  (piiekly. 

I       "  Well,  there';)  in>  Haying— .<he  umy  Imve  met 
hiiu  before,  and  Hoea  too  niueli,  or   loo  little  of 
I  him,  ns  it  may  be." 

'  Mr^.  Mordaunt  hii,'«  never  uul  Loid  Miilru- 
I  vcn  before ! " 

"  Lor !  colonel — you  must  be  joking  !  " 

"  It  is  a  fact,  (iueketl :  she  told  me  so  herself," 

"  Well,  then  I'm  niL^laken,  and  there's  an  end 

I  of  it." 

"  Mistaken  In  what  y— how  ? — do  o.xi>l,iiii  your. 

Ifclf,  yuekett!" 

"  I'd  rather  not ;  lea.st  aaid,  soonest  mended  ; 
Lintl  if  madam  tells  you  h'  'j  never  met  this  gentle- 
|nmu  beft)re,  of  course  sh'!  never  did." 

"Of  eour-io  not!  I  would  sooner  doubt  my 
|o«n  word  than  Irene's." 

'Just  so,  colonel ;  and  therefore  it  would  be 
liuclejs  to  purs  le  the  subject.  But  she  haa  cer- 
Itaiiily  enjoyed  very  bad  spirits  lately." 

"  What  do  you  attribute  them  to  1 " 

"  Who  can  tell  what  a  young  girl  like  that 
aay  be  thinking  of?     Perhaps  she's  getting  tired 
|ol'tlie  country — " 

"She  was  saying  only  yesterday  that  she  loved 
It  more  than  ever." 

Mrs.  Quckett  laughs  incredulously. 

"  Well,  I'm  wrong  again,  then,  that's  all. 
perhaps  the  care  of  the  cliild's  too  niueh  for 
kt." 

"  T  have  implored  her  aguin  and  again  to 
leave  him  more  with  Phoebe,  but  she  will  hardly 
|ct  the  boy  out  of  her  sight." 

"Ah  ! — ^hum ! — it  docs  seem  to  come  wonder- 
liljy  natural  to  her  to  be  fond  of  him,  doesn't  it  ? 
iTisa't  often  that  young  women  tliat  have  never 
«cn  mothers  take  to  a  stranger's  child  like  that : 
I  hope  it'll  turn  out  for  the  best,  colonel.  Well, 
If  it's  neither  one  nor  the  other  that  worries 
Krs.  Mordaunt,  perhaps  this  new  friend  of  yours 
tiuta  fancies  into  her  head." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ? — do  speak  out !  " 

"  Lord  Muiravcn  may  remind  her  of  some  one 
|he  has  known  in  old  times,  or — " 

"Quckett!  you  are  torturing  me.  Why  on 
Jarth  should  a  chance  resemblance,  even  if  it  ex- 

8 


i.'^ts,  make  my  wife  iow-gphitcd  f  Her  past  is 
gone  and  done  with,  and  i«he  is  fur  too  good 
and — " 

"Oh!  very  well,  eohinrl — very  well.  I,et  us 
change  I iiu  snbjcet ;  it  only  eunu^  upon  me  fiom 
your  la  ing  so  certain  they  had  ni'ver  met  before 
— which  I'm  sure  I'm  quite  willing  to  lulieve. 
He's  u  handsome  man,  till'  new  lnnl,  isn't  he? 
(^lite  the  ladie.-i'  style.  Young  and  tali,  and 
with  such  fine  eyes;  I  dare  say  there  are  a  good 
many  after  him." 

'■  I  dare  say  there  arc" 

"  Quite  a  catch  for  the  London  ladies.  I 
wonder  wiiy  he  isn't  married  ?  " 

"There's  plenty  of  time  for  that,  tiuekctl." 

"  I  don't  know,  colonel.  They  say  '  better 
late  than  never,'  but  it  doesn't  ajjply  to  marriage; 
'no  foul  like  an  old  fool'  is  a  more  appropriate 
motto  for  that." 

At  this  home  thrust  the  colonel  becomes  un- 
easy,  and  tries  tosliift  the  subject. 

"  Lord  Muiri'.ven  will  rcnuiin  here  for  some 
days  longer,  Quckett." 

"  Ah !  will  ho  ?  Hi.  he  ever  been  in  thia 
part  of  the  country  before,  colonel  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of;  why  do  you  ask  J  " 

"  There  is  an  uneoinmou  likeness  between 
him  and  that  little  boy  there.  They're  the  very 
moral  of  each  other:  everybody's  talking  of 
it!" 

Colonel  Mordaunt  flushes  angrily. 

"  What  absurd  nonsense !  I  do  beg  you'll  do 
your  best  to  put  such  gossip  down.  If  there  is 
any  resemblance,  it  is  a  mere  accident." 

"  It  generally  is,  colonel." 

"  Quekctt,  I  thought  you  luid  more  sense. 
Do  you  think  for  a  moment,  tinU  even  supposing 
Lord  Miuraven  had  been  near  I'riestley  before 
(which  I  am  sure  he  has  not),  a  man  of  his  posi- 
tion and  standing  would  lower  himself  by — " 

"  Making  love  to  a  pretty  girl !  Yes !  I  do, 
colonel  [  and  that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it. 
However,  I  don't  wish  to  say  any  more  about  it ; 
I  only  mentioned  they  were  very  similar,  which  no 
one  who  looks  at  them  can  deny.  Good-night, 
colonel.  I  hope  your  lady's  spirits  will  get  bet- 
ter; and  don't  you  think  too  mucli  about  them — 
for  thinking  never  mended  heart  nor  home — and  I 
dare  say  she'll  come  round  again  as  natural  as 
possible."  With  which  piece  of  consolation,  Mrs. 
Quekctt  leaves  her  master  in  the  very  condition 
she  aspired  to  create — torn  asunder  by  doubts 
and  suspicions,  and  racking  his  brain  for  a  satia* 
factory  solution  of  them. 


'■I 


'1 


'1 


114 


"NO  INTKNTIONH." 


Miaiiwliilc  Miilrnvi'ii,  who  li  nlwnyn  on  tlio 
lookout  lorn  I'l'W  privitti!  wunls  with  Irene,  whlih 
tho  appears  iii  (Itioi'iiiiiieil  lie  hIiiiII  not  (;iiiii,  pro- 
fei4.<*i'8  to  hiivu  conceived  an  aliHoi'MM)^  hiteitNt  in 
Toniiiiy,  iiiiii  Icii^i's  lier  for  piirlioularn  concornln}; 
bJK  pnronfiij;e  ami  iintecedonfH. 

"  I  (lun't  Icnuir  when  I  met  n  cliiid  tlint  inter- 
p^teil  tne  HO  nmeli  ns  tld«  proli'r/i  of  jouih,  Mrn. 
Mordiuint.  lie  do(>^n't  lool<  li|{L>  a  eoiniiioii  eiiild, 
VVbiTO  (lid  you  i)iek  Idin  up  ?  " 

"  Vou  Kpciik  of  liini  junt  ns  tlioiigli  lio  woro  a 
liorxo  or  a  do;?  ;  wliy  don't  you  siiy  at  onci', 
'Where  did  you  Ai/i/ Idtn  V '" 

"  Ik'CdUHu  I  know  timt  tho  only  coin  tliat 
lOidd  purcliu.-fi  linn  would  be  your  beiievoioncc. 
Hut,  seriously,  does  lie  belong  to  this  part  of  tlic 
country  t " 

"  Ho  belongs  nowhere,  Lord  Muiravcn.  He 
is  a  wretelied  little  waif  and  stray  wliosc  mother 
WHS  (liHt  Ijetrnyed  and  then  rleaerted.  A  con)nion 
Htory,  liut  none  the  less  fad  for  l)eing  common. 
I  think  tlic  lieavieHt  penalty  for  »in  mu!*t  be 
incurred  by  those  who  heartlessly  bring  sueh  an 
irretricva))le  ndsfortune  tipon  tho  head.s  of  I  lie  un- 
wary and  the  innocent." 

"  I  quite  agree  wilii  you,"  he  answer.-',  ab- 
ruptly. 

"How  hardened  he  mu.st  be  to  show  no  signs 
of  fooling  at  the  allusion  I "  Is  her  comment  as  she 
regards  his  face,  half  turned  away. 

"  But  to  return  to  Tommy,"  resumes  Muiravcn, 
"  do  you  really  intend  to  bring  him  up  in  your 
own  station  of  life — to  rear  him  as  a  gcnilemnn  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  yet  decided." 

"  Hut  if  you  do  not  decide  siiortly,  you  will 
injure  the  child.  Having  once  permitted  him  to 
assimilate  himself  with  gentlemen  and  gentle- 
women, it  will  bo  cruelty  to  tlirust  liim  into  the 
company  of  a  lower  class." 

"You  misunderstand  me.  I  do  not  intend 
tliat  Tommy  shall  over  again  descend  to  a  class 
from  which,  at  all  events  on  one  side,  he  sprang; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  I  am  not  sure  that  Colonel 
Mordaunt  will  permit  roc  to  have  him  educated  to 
enter  a  profession,  or  that  it  would  be  kindness  in 
us  to  permit  him  to  do  so.  He  will  most  probably 
be  brought  up  to  some  business." 

"Poor  child! — not  because  ho  Is  going  into 
business  (I  often  wish  I  had  been  apprenticed  to 
some  good  hard  work  myself),  but  because,  wher- 
ever ho  goes,  the  stigma  of  his  biilh  (s  sure  to 
rest  on  him." 

"Poor  child,  indeed!"  she  repeats,  with  an 
angry  flash  in  his  direction,  which  Muiravcn  is 
totally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend ;  "but  so  long  as 


ho  U  umUr  m>  protection,  ho  shall  never  feci  iIk 
cruel  Injury  which  has  been  <lono  him  by  {U„„ 
who  hhould  have  been  his  truent  friciido." 

"  Vou  lay,  'lo  long  as  ho  \i  under  your  prv 
tcction,'  Mrs.  Mordaimt ;  but — forgive  ini'  i; : 
questioning— suppose  any  thing  should  hapjicn  t 
withdraw  that  protection  from  him;  your  di'nil, 
for  instance  (we  arc  not  children,  to  be  ofmiil  i 
mention  Bueh  a  probalillity),  or  Colonel  .M„ 
daunt'ii  disapproval  —  what  would  become  u 
Tommy  Ihenf " 

"(Jod  knows,"  t-he  answers  sadly.  He  , 
speaking  to  her  bo  much  as  he  u^ed  to  spciiki: 
old,  when  they  were  wont  to  hohl  long  convcr-i 
lions  on  topics  as  far  removed  from  love  or  niai' 
mony,  that  she  is  becoming  interested,  ami  l,a. 
almost  forgotten  the  r/ile  hIio  has  hitherto  pr. 
served  towaril  him  of  haughty  indiirercnce.     . 

"  I  wish  you  woidd  make  nio  his  seeoml  (riia:.| 
dian,"  he  says,  quickly,  wilii  nn  access  of  color  i:  I 
his  face. 

"  Wliat  do  you  mean  f  " 

"  That,  in  case  of  tiiis  chllii  ever  being  tlirc»ii| 
upon  the  world  again,  I  am  willing  to  carry  i 
the  protection  you  are  so  nobly  according  to  i.ial 
now ! " 

"  You ! " 

"Yes,  I — wliy  not?  I  have  no  tics,  Mrs.  JI: 
daimt — nor  am  I  likely  to  make  any — and  I  liav>| 
taken  a  fancv  to  this  little  boy  of  yours.    Myonl 
life  has  been  a  gi'cat  mistake — it  would  be  ^'OEi• 
thing  to  guard  another  life,  as  fresh  as  nnnuTO| 
once,  from  tlie  same  errors." 

"  You — you  want  to  take  Tommy  from  mo-l 
0  Lord  Muiravcn!  you  don't  know  wliat  ytl 
are  asking  for.  I  cannot  part  with  him — I  hav-T 
grown  so  fond  ef  him — pray  don't  take  hiL| 
away ! " 

In  her  surprise  and  agitation,  Irene  is  forgeil 
ting  the  manner  in  which  tlie  proposal  of  her  cos 
panion  has  brought  about;  and,  only  remciulK: I 
ing  the  prior  claim  ho  has  upon  the  child,  bclio»i;| 
for  the  moment  that  he  is  aware  of  and  'intm\ 
to  urge  it. 

"  I  will  take  every  care  of  him,"  she  goes a\ 
impulsively,  "of  course  I  will,  loving  him  ajl| 
do — but  leave  him  with  me.     He  is  all  I  have." 

"  What  have  I  said  ?  "  exclaims  Muiravcn,  i:| 
astonishment.    The  question  brings  her  to 
senses. 

"I — I — thought  you — you — wanted  to  ndoft| 
the  child  !  "  she  says,  in  much  confusion. 

"  Only  in  case  of  his  losing  his  present  pro-l 
tcctress,  which  God  forbid ! "  ho  answers,  groveljl 
"Perhaps  I  have  been  impertinent,  Mrs.  Morj 


lUKNK   AND   iIKU    KOUMKIl   LOVLIt. 


118 


:c  ToHimy  from  mc-l 

Inii't  know  what  yul 

art  with  him— I  havJ 

ray   don't   tako  hiEJ 

tut  ion,  Irene  is  forg«- 
e  proposal  of  her  coir- 
and,  only  remember  | 
pon  the  child,  bcllcid 
aware  of  and  intcn:* 

of  him,"  she  goes  ct  I 
will,  loving  him  as  1 
He  is  all  I  have." 
exclaims  Muiraven,  i;| 
jn  brings  her  to  hKj 

ou — wanted  to  ttdojil 
ich  confusion.  I 

ising  his  present  pw-j 
he  answers,  gravtljl 
ipertinent,  Mrs.  Mor| 


Jiunf,  in  nayln'^i  at  much  an  I  h.ivu  don-' ;  Iml  I  ' 
li.ivo  nut  iK'nuMi!  to  lulp  iih^oiviii^;,  whilo  uii. 
Jor  your  r«)i>r,  that  yi>iir  iiii'liaiid  din-H  nut  lake 
(iiilti;  Hi»  kindly  to  tliis  little  lnntHii„'  mi  you  ilo ; 
tttid  I  tliou;,'lit,  porli.i|H,  tli.it  Mlioidd  any  diiriTcnoo 
eViT  arJ!*!)  conet'inin','  hiiii,  you  inij^lit  Ix,-  ^!lad  to 
think  llii»t  I  wa^  ready  to  I'.irry  im  what  you  have 
lpi,^ni,_tliat  Touiiny,  In  fai't,  had  auotliiT  frlt'inl 
IkM'Ii'H  youisoir.  Iliit  il'  it  was  pri'bUniptuou:t, 
|ili;i!<>'  forgive  me  I" 

"Tlicrol.-i  nothiu;;  to  forgive, "  nho  answer- ; 
,,i,lly;   "tlio  thought  wa^    kind,  and  ftomo   day, 

|)iMii.ip!< — " 

'•  IVrhip.H— what  ? " 

"I  wdl  toll  you — or  wiiti'  to  you  thi'  partlou- 
l.iM— all  that  I  know,  I  nioau,  about  the  fud  ea.su 
oftliU  poor  chlhl." 

"Soino  day  you  will  writo,  or  tell  me,  all  the 
Mftioulars  about  the  sad  vaw  of  this  poor  child," 
bo  repeats,  slowly  and  musingly.  "I  wonder  if, 
jiorao  (l:>y,  you  will  let  >iic  write,  or  tell  you,  all 
the  particuluri  about  a  case  far  sailder  than  his 
(•:m  be — a  case  that  has  wrecked  ray  earthly  hap- 
[line^f",  and  made  mo  careless  of  my  future  ?  " 

There  i.s  no  mistaking  the  tone  in  which  he 
stys  these  words :  there  is  a  ring  of  despairing 
love  in  it  which  no  laws  of  propriety  can  quell  or 
cover  over. 

"Lord  Muiraven!"  she  cries,  Indignantly,  as 
she  retreats  a  few  paces  from  him.  Hut  he  is 
').)l'l  to  pursue  her  and  to  tako  her  hand. 

"  Irene  !  I  can  endure  this  misery  no  longer. 
It  has  been  pent  up  In  my  breast  for  years,  and 
now  it  will  have  its  way.  I  know  you  have  hard 
thoughts  of  me ;  but,  if  I  die  for  it,  I  will  dispel 
them.  Irene,  the  time  is  come,  and  I  must  speak 
to  you  1 " 


CHAPTER  X. 

"On !  why  did  you  ever  come  here? "  is  the 
I  first  wailing  reproach  with  which  she  receives 
I  his  words. 

"Because  I  could  not  help  it!  Much  as  I 
I  have  suffered  since  wo  parted,  I  would  not,  know- 
in?  how  lame  any  explanation  I  can  make  to  you 
I  must  be,  have  sought  yon  willfully :  but  when  the 
I  opportunity  was  pressed  upon  me,  I  could  not 

I  resist  it,  and  I  am  here,  and  you  must  listen  while 

I I  speak." 
"  I  need  no  explanation ! "  she  says,  proudly. 
"  Then  you  are  not  the  woman  that  I  took  you 

I  for,    Yoa  are  not  the  woman  who  once  vowed  to 


lie  my  IVieiicl  and  eoun-elor.  rrlendH  do  not 
cuiideunt  ihi'lr  fiii  nd.H  unheard,  Irene." 

"  You  mu.-t  not  call  mc  by  that  name, "  -he 
falter.>i. 

"I  nujtt,  and  will  I  for,  a^  we  stand  fogithei 
now,  I  know  you  by  no  (iiber.  Ilul  do  not  be 
alVald  tli.it  I  ith.dl  nay  oni;  \i(n'il  that  you  need 
blamo  mu  for.  It  is  not  a  tmin  wlio  xprakn  to 
you  !  It  is  a  fillow-.<oul  calling  on  you  for  tiod's 
sake  to  lay  aside  for  om;  moment  nil  tlio  hard 
tbought.i  yon  may  have  cherished  of  him,  ami  lei 
liim  say  what  be  can  say  for  himselfl" 

"  (Jo  on,"  kIio  whispers ;  but  she  turns  her 
face  away,  and,  stooping  to  gather  sundry  flowers 
that  grow  near,  weaves  tliem,  wiili  liembllng 
lingers,  into  a  little  sort  of  tuft. 

It  is  after  breakfast,  and  they  are  standing  in 
front  of  Fen  Court  watching  Tonnny  play  upon 
the  lawn.  As  the  last  .vonls  leave  Irene's  lip-, 
Colonel  Mordaiint,  mouiitetl  on  his  favorite  linn- 
ter,  comes  riding  toivanl  them  fron»  the  stables. 

"Holloa,  Muiraven!  I  thoiigbt  you  were 
going  over  to  (,'hester  Farm  with  mo  this  morning 
to  see  that  greyhotuid  litter.  My  man  think-"  we 
shall  be  able  to  spare  you  a  couple,  if  you  take  ii 
fancy  to  the  [nips." 

"  You're  very  good,  color.el !  I  Klioidd  like  to 
go  by  all  means,  but  won't  you  give  nx-  half  an 
hour's  grace  after  hieakfast?  If  I  bad  a  ipniiter 
your  constitution,  I  wouldn't  ask  for  it." 

Tlie  eohmel  pretends  to  laugh  at  the  idea,  but 
he  secretly  enjoys  it. 

"And  you  a  bachelor,  without  a  care  to  in- 
terfere with  your  digestion.  Wait  till  you're 
n-.arricd,  my  lord  ! '' 

"That'.s  complimentary  to  me,"  says  Irene, 
who  is  plucking  up  .«pirit  with  the  want  of  notice 
accorded  to  her.  And  then  she  turns  round  sud- 
denly, and  goes  up  to  her  husband's  side  ami 
fastens  the  little  bouquet  she  has  made  into  bis 
button-hole. 

The  small  attention  pleases  him :  he  feels  as 
though  the  sun  had  suddenly  come  out  from  be- 
hind a  cloud,  and  with  his  disengaged  hand  he 
squeezes  the  fingers  busied  with  his  adornment. 

"  Thank  you,  my  darling ! "  he  says,  fervo  itly. 

At  that  Irene  does,  what  she  so  seldom  does 
before  another,  puts  up  her  lips  to  kiss  her  hus- 
band. 

"  Don't  be  away  long ! "  she  says,  as  she  cm- 
braces  hira. 

Muiraven  hears  the  sentence  with  a  sigh,  and 
watches  the  oction  with  a  frown ;  he  knows  so 
well  what  they  arc  intended  to  convey — that, 
whatever  this  woman  may  still  think  or  feel,  ho 


m 


'1; 

f3 


116 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


must  be  loyal  to  lior  liU'^band,  or  she  will  not 
listen  to  him. 

"I  sliiill  bo  baik  witliin  the  hour, dear,"  replies 
Colonel  Mordaunt. — "  I  have  only  to  ride  down  to 
tljc  Lon;^  Close  and  sec  about  the  draining  there, 
and  then  i)erha[is  you  will  be  ready  to  accompany 
nic  to  Cheater  Farm,  Muiravcn." 

"I  shall  be  ready  by  that  time,"  replies  the 
guest,  with  careless  brevity,  as  he  switches  off  a 
bunch  of  lilac  with  his  cane. 

lie  never  intended  to  say  more  to  Irene  than 
it  would  be  right  for  her  to  hear :  there  was  no 
need  of  that  kiss  to  remind  him  of  his  duty — it 
has  galled  him ;  and,  ns  soon  as  Colonel  Mor- 
daunt's  back  is  turned,  he  lets  her  know  it. 

She  is  watcl'.lng  the  retreating  horsc  and  rider, 
more  from  nervousness  at  the  coming  explanation 
than  regret  at  her  husband's  departure,  when 
Muiravcn's  voice  sounds  in  her  car  again. 

"If  you  can  spare  one  moment  from  your 
matrimonial  rhapsodies,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  perhaps 
you  will  fulfill  the  promise  you  made  just  now, 
and  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say." 

The  sarcastic  tone,  so  unseemly  in  their  rela- 
tive positions,  rouses  her  to  a  sense  of  her  own 
dignity  and  makes  her  brave. 

"  Lord  Muiraven,  you  took  me  so  much  by 
surprise  that  I  hardly  knew  what  to  answer.  I 
cannot  believe  that  any  explanation  can  alter 
matters  as  they  now  stand  between  you  and  me, 
nor  do  I  see  the  necessity  of  one.  But  if  you  are 
still  desirous  of  speaking  to  me,  I  am  ready,  as  I 
said  before,  to  listen  to  you.  ShaU  we  go  in- 
doors, or  remain  here  ?  " 

"  Come  into  the  shrubbery,"  he  says,  earnest- 
ly ;  and  into  the  shrubbery  they  go. 

When  they  arrive  there,  they  pace  up  and 
down  the  winding  pathway  more  than  once,  in 
utter  silence. 

"  Please  say  what  you  have  to  saj-,"  she  pleads 
at  last. 

"I  v.ill!  Irene,  when  your  mother  spoke  to 
me  that  day  in  the  library  at  Brook  Street,  I  felt 
«3  though  a  thunder-bolt  had  fallen  at  my  feet ! " 

"Oh,  why  allude  to  that?  It  is  all  passed  and 
done  with.    Who  cared  about  it  ? " 

"  You  did — and  so  did  I.  It  nearly  broke  my 
heart,  and  yet  I  was  powerless  to  act  in  any  other 
manner." 

"  Then  why  speak  about  it  ?  I  wish  that  you 
would  not." 

"I  mml  speak  about  it,  even  at  the  risk  of 
tearing  open  my  own  wounds  and  yours.  You  see 
how  coolly  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  cared  for 
me,  Irene  ? " 


"  Your  wounds  ?  " 

"Yes,  mine!  Good  (lod,  do  you  sujipcsc  tl;ai 
any  obstacle  short  of  insuperable  would  liay,. 
made  nie  act  as  I  was  forced  to  do?  Do  von 
believe  that  I  didn't  love  you  with  all  my  heart 
and  soul,  Irene  ?  " 

She  does  not  an:.Mcr  him,  but  draws  a  deqi 
long  sigh  of  gratitude.  Some  of  the  black  iloui 
that  has  darkened  her  existence  is  cleared  awav 
already.     Eric  Juir  loved  her. 

"  If  I  had  known  it ! "  she  said,  at  length. 

"  Would  it  have  made  you  happier  ?  " 

"  I  could  have  borne  what  followed  by  m;.. 
self,"  she  answers,  simply. 

Then  a  light  breaks  in  upon  Muiraven,  anl 
he  sees  v.'hat  he  has  done.  Ec  understands  tliai 
this  girl  has  entered  upon  marriage  to  save  Lt: 
from  the  apathy  that  succeeds  despair. 

"  God  forgive  me ! "  he  cries  aloud.    0  Irene:] 
I  dared  not  tell  you — I  dared  not  tell  it  to  mj- 
self  until  your  mother  crushed  mc  with  her  in- 1 
quirifs,  and  I  had  no  alternative  but  to  preservt 
a  houndish  silence  and  to  leave  the  house  that  | 
held  every  thing  that  was  dearest  to  me  in  ti, 
world,     lly   crime — my  madness  was  to  lingc  I 
near  you  for  so  long — when  I  knew  a  barrier  wa; 
raised  between  us  that   even  time  itself  niigL; 
never  have  the  power  to  pull  down.    But  I  dij  i 
not  know  my  danger,  Irene,  far  less  could  I  giie;; 
yours :  exonerate  mc  so  far,  if  you  can.    I  wa- 1 
so  lonely  at  that  period  of  my  life — so  much  h 
need  of  sympathy  and  counsel — and  the  friendship  I 
you  accorded  to  me  was  so  sweet,  I  was  wick;  I 
enough  never  to  stop  to  consider  what  the  consc-  [ 
quences  of  the  intercourse  might  be  to  botholl 
us.     0  Irene,  I  will  never  again  insult  you  L 
asking  you  to  be  my  friend,  but  say  that  you  nil; I 
try  to  forgive  me  for  the  wrong  I  did  you,  and  to 
think  less  hardly  of  mc  than  you  do." 

"The  barrier!  "she  murmurs.     Her  voice  i:| 
full  of  tears,  and  she  dares  not  trust  herself  to  ss; 
another  word. 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  I  can.  I  will  tell  you  mori 
than  I  have  ever  told  to  any  other  human  crcail 
uro  on  the  subject.  When  I  was  very  young- j 
long  before  I  met  you — I  got  myself  into  a  dread  f 
ful  scrape ;  so  great  a  scrape  that  I  did  not  dari 
— and  never  have  dared  yet — to  tell  my  father  o:| 
it;  and  this  scrape  involved  consequences  tba; 
utterly  precluded — and  preclude  still — my  cvc:| 
thinking  of  marriage." 

"But  —  but  I  thought  I  heard  —  a  runio;| 
reached  us  two  years  ago  that  you  were  engagc.| 
to  a  Miss  Robertson." 

"Nothing  but  a  rumor,  Irene.     Tour  informi 


A  FilIENDLY  EXPLANATION. 


117 


lo  you  supiiosc  tbi 
)crublc  would  liavi' 
;cil  to  ilo  ?  Do  you 
u  with  oil  my  lean 

n,  but  draws  a  dec|> 
e  of  the  blttck  ilou.i 

aicc  id  cleared  a\va\ 

3  said,  at  kngtb. 

lu  happier  ?  " 

hat  followed  by  m;,. 

upon  Muiravcn,  anl 
lie  understands  tliai 
marriage  to  save  ht: 
da  despair, 
irles  aloud.    0  Iiciio! 
red  not  tell  it  to  mj- 
shed  nic  with  her  in- 
lative  but  to  preserve  I 
leave  the  hous^e  tlu!  | 
dearest  to  nic  in  tii 
idness  was  to  lingci 
I  knew  a  barrier  wa- 1 
en  time  itself  niig 
pull  down.    But  I  (liJ  I 
far  less  could  I  gwa  | 
ir,  if  you  can.    I  was 
'  my  life — so  much  is 
el — and  the  friendsiip  I 
0  sweet,  I  was  wickti 
isider  what  the  consc- 
might  be  to  both  of 
again  insult  you  l.}  I 
but  say  that  you  ffi'i'; 
■ong  I  did  you,  miiv 
a  you  do." 
armurs.    Her  voice  i: 
lot  trust  herself  to  sj;  I 

I  will  tell  you  m:< 
ny  other  human  crcatl 

I  was  very  yourg- 
Dt  myself  into  a  dread- 1 
DC  that  I  didnotdatil 
•to  tell  my  father  o:j 
ed  consequences  tba; 
cclude  still— my  cvc:| 

I  heard  — a  runio:j 
that  you  were  engagcJ 

Irene.    Tour  informi 


ant  must  have  meant  my  brother  Cecil,  who  is 
to  marry  Harriet  Robertson  next  month.  Rut 
to  return  to  ourselves.  I  know  my  explanation 
is  a  very  unsatisfactory  one,  and  that  I  am  pre- 
sumptuous to  hope  you  may  accept  it.  Hut  I 
cannot  help  making  it.  Will  you  trust  mo  so  far 
as  to  bellivc  that  I  speak  the  trutli  ?  " 

"  I  do  believe  it ! " 

"Tiiank  you,  a  thousand  times.  (l!i,  if  you 
knew  the  load  your  words  have  lifted  off  my  breast ! 
Iliid  I  followed  the  dictates  of  prudonce,  and  of 
what  the  world  calls  propriety,  I  should  have 
>neaked  away  whenever  I  heard  your  name  men- 
tioned, and  died,  as  I  have  lived,  under  the  ban 
of  your  contempt.  But  I  was  determinod,  ns  soon 
as  ever  Fate  sent  mc  tlic  opportunity,  to  try  and 
dear  myself  in  your  eyes.  It  is  a  very  little  I 
c^n  say.  I  can  only  throw  myself  on  your  com- 
passion, and  ask  you  to  believe  me,  when  I  swear 
(hit  I  never  loved  any  woman  as  I  loved  you ;  and 
that  had  it  been  iu  my  power  to  marry  you,  J 
should  have  spared  no  pains  to  make  you  love  inc 
in  roturn." 

''I  do  believe  you,"  she  repeats  again. 

Hi  stops,  and  she  stops,  and  he  confronts  her 
on  the  shrubbery-path. 

"You  believe — as  surely  as  thoi'.gh  I  wer'i 
yourself — that  there  exists  a  fatal  and  insur- 
mountable obstacle  to  my  marrying  any  one  ?  " 

"  I  do — since  you  assure  me  it  is  so  I " 

"  And  that,  had  that  obstacle  not  existed,  I 
would  have  sought  you,  so  long  as  you  were  sin- 
gle, through  all  the  world,  in  order  to  persuade 
yott  to  become  my  wife  ?  " 

"  Since  you  affirm  it — yes !  " 

"And  that,  when  I  asked  for  your  friendship 
and  affection,  it  was  with  no  base  intention  to 
^Icceivc  or  trifle  with  your  love,  but  because  my 
o«Ti  yearning  to  be  associated  with  you  was  so 
deep  that  I  gratefully  gathered  up  the  least  crumb 
of  consolation  without  considering  \\  hat  the  issue 
might  bring  to  us  ?  " 

"  I  do ! " 

"0  Irene,  if  I  had  but  known  all  this  bo- 
fore  ! " 

"It  WRS  impoiis'ble  that  you  could  know  it. 
It  is  an  adverse  Fate  that  has  divided  us.  Ba 
content  to  learn  it  now." 

"  I  am  content — and  deeply  grateful  for  your 
trust.  But,  with  your  trust,  shall  I  regnin  your 
friendship  ?  " 

She  hardly  knows  what  to  answer  to  this 
question.  She  is  glowing  with  the  excitement  of 
his  revelations,  but  sober  enough  to  be  aware 
that  such  a  friendship  as  they  once  promised  one 


another,  can  ncvtr  exi>t  between  iln.in  in  their 
new  relations. 

"  Lord  Muiravcn  ! " — she  commences — 

"  Oil '  do  not  call  me  by  that  name.  Freshly 
as  it  brings  back  to  mo  my  brother's  death,  it  is 
hateful  upon  all  occasions,  and  more  than  ever 
from  your  lifis." 

"  I  must  not  call  you  otherwise,"  she  answeis, 
(luiekly.  "You  have  tioon  very  iVank  with  mc, 
and  I  will  be  the  same  wiiii  you.  I  will  acknowl- 
edge that  your  conduct — your  supposed  indiBer- 
ence — " 

"  )fy  indill'erence  —  0  Tione  !  " 

" — Has  been  the  cause,  at  times,  of  groat  pain 
to  n!C,  and  that  to  hear  you  clear  yourself  is  com- 
fort ;  and,  if  I  were  still  single,  I  might  say  let  us 
renew  the  friendship  which  was  so  rudely  broken  : 
but  I  am  married,  Lord  Muiravcn,  and  what  we 
promised  to  be  to  one  another  in  those  old  days 
we  can  never  be  now  !  " 

Lord  Muiravcn  receives  this  announcement 
with  a  deep  groan. 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  see  the  justice  of  my  re- 
mark," she  goes  on,  presently.  "  Tlie  counsel  and 
advice  and  sympathy  which  were  to  form  that 
bond,  and  which,  more  often  than  not,  involve 
fidelity,  might  not  be  pleasant  lo  my  husbnnd,  and 
— I  promised  to  be  frank  with  you — I  love  my 
husband,  Lord  Muiravcn." 

"  You  do  ?  "  he  says,  incredulously. 

"  I  do  indeed  !  Not  in  the  way,  perhaps,  you 
think  of  lovo,  but,  anywny,  too  much  to  engage 
in  any  thing  that  might  distress  or  wrong  him. 
And  you  know  that  a  man  of  his  age  might  well 
be  unhappy  and  suspicious  at  his  wife  having  a 
young  and  close  friend  like  yourself.  So  that 
any  thing  more  than  good  compmionship  is  utter- 
ly denied  to  us." 

"  The  devil !  "  says  Muiravcn,  under  his  breath. 

"Hush!  don't  speak  of  it  so  lightly.  You 
know  well  what  I  mean.  My  husband  married 
me  when  most  people  would  hardly  have  thought 
I  should  have  made  a  pleasant  wife,  and — " 

"  Oh  !  say  you  love  mc  still,"  he  interposes, 
eagerly,  guessing  at  the  reason  of  her  doubt. 

She  turns  her  calm  sad  eyes  on  him  in  silence, 
and  the  rebuke  is  sufficient ;  he  periiiits  her  to 
proceed. 

" Throuirh  all  my  indifFerenco  and  depres- 
sion, and  often,  I  am  afraid,  my  ill-temper  (for  I 
have  not  been  half  grateful  to  him  for  his  kind- 
ness), he  has  been  so  patient  and  attentive  and 
affectionate,  that  I  never  could  for'^ot  it — if  I 
would.  And  therefore  it  is  that  I  cannot  give 
you  back  my  friendship.  Lord  Muiravcn.      My 


I 


118 


"NO  INTENTIONS.' 


'(; 


sympathy  will  be  always  vourH ;  but  friendishii) 
includes  conDdcuce,  and  I  mu  .sure  that  conOdcncc 
between  me  and  any  other  man  would  give  my 
husband  pain." 

"  Is  a  mairied  woman  never  to  have  any  male 
friends,  then  ?  "  he  says,  discontentedly, 

"  I  am  not  called  upon  to  decide  for  other 
women.  Some,  unfortunately,  have  no  friends  in 
tliuir  husbands,  and  they  must  judge  for  them- 
selves ;  but  my  husband  was  my  best  friend  when 
— when  I  really  seemed  to  be  without  one  in  the 
world,  and  I  feel  bound  to  return  his  goodness 
where  I  can." 

"  All  right,  then !  I  conclude  every  thing's 
over  between  us.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  " — in  a 
voice  of  the  direst  offense. 

"OEric!  don't  break  my  heart!"  she  cries 
involuntarily. 

^''  Break  your  heart,  v;hen  I  would  lay  down  my 
life  to  save  you  from  a  moment's  pain !  Irene !  I 
am  the  mosf  miserable  man  on  God's  earth.  By  one 
fatal  mistake  I  wrecked  all  my  hopes  of  happi- 
ness ;  and  now  you  consider  me  unworthy  even 
of  the  notice  you  accord  to  the  commonest  of 
your  acquaintances." 

"I  never  said  that.  I  sh.ill  always  think  of 
you,  and  treat  you  as  a  friend ;  but,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, don't  you  agree  with  mo  that  there 
might  be  danger  in  a  closer  intimacy  ?  " 

"  Would  there  be  danger  ?  "  he  says,  joyfully. 

Alas  for  the  weakness  of  human  nature !  He 
has  just  declared  he  could  lay  down  his  life  to 
save  her  from  a  moment's  pain ;  and  yet  it  thrills 
him  through  with  happiness  to  find  that  she  fears 
lest  nearer  intercourse  might  bring  wretchedness 
for  bolb  of  them,  and  he  would  consent  to  the 
nearer  intercourse,  and  the  prospect  of  wretched- 
ness, with  the  greatest  alacrity,  and  believe  finnl^ 
that  he  loves  her  through  it  all ! 

Alas  for  human  nature !  Blind,  weak,  waver- 
ing, and  selfish.  From  the  crown  of  its  head  to 
the  sole  of  its  foot,  there  is  no  whole  part  in  it ! 

"  I  think  I  will  go  in  now,"  says  Irene,  with- 
out taking  any  apparent  notice  of  his  last  remark. 
"  I  have  said  all  that  I  can  say  to  you,  Lord 
Muiraven ;  and  further  conversation  on  the  sub- 
ject would  be  useless.  You  have  made  me  much 
happier  by  what  you  have  told  mo  to-day,  for  I 
have  had  a  hard  battle  sometimes  since  we  parted 
to  reconcile  your  conduct  with  the  notion  I  had 
formed  of  you.  I  only  wish  you  had  spoken  as 
frankly  to  my  poor  mother  as  you  have  done  to 
me." 

"  I  should,  had  Mrs.  St.  John  only  given  me 
the  opportunity." 


"  Never  mind !  It  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  and 
perhaps  she  sees  the  ;ason  of  it  now  more  tkar. 
ly  than  I  do.  TImnl.  you  for  telling  me  as  niuih 
as  you  have.  But  we  will  not  allude,  please,  t.i 
the  sulycct  again." 

"  Must  I  never  speak  to  you  of  Uiy  trouble; '; " 

"It  is  better  not;  and  you  need  not  ftarl 
shall  forget  you  or  them.  I  have  always  pravid 
for  you — I  shall  do  so  still." 

"  God  bless  you,  Irene  ! "  he  says,  beneath  Lis 
breath  ;  and  at  the  entrance  of  the  shrubltciy 
they  part,  he  to  go  toward  the  st-bles,  slie  tu». 
ard  the  house. 

But  she  has  not  left  his  side  one  minute  In. 
fore  a  thought  flashes  across  her  mind — a  thouglii 
which  never  once  presented  itself  throughout  the 
interview. 

"  7'hc  chihl  I     Whut  of  (he  child  !  " 

What  of  the  child,  indeed  !  Is  she  to  restore 
him  to  the  man  who  has  reinstated  himself  in  Lir 
good  opinion ;  or  does  not  the  mere  fact  of  Lij 
existence  render  much  that  Lord  Muiraven  Ilos 
said  to  her  in  the  shrubbery  null  and  void  ?  L 
the  word  of  the  betrayer  of  MjTa  Cray  a  word  to 
be  trusted ;  or  is  it  certain  that  Eric  Keir  was 
that  betrayer  ?  Between  excitement  and  exjuc- 
tation  and  doubt  and  uncertainty,  Irene  beeumcs 
quite  confused,  and  the  first  thing  she  docs  (jd 
reentering  Fen  Court  is  to  take  out  the  paclut 
of  letters,  the  ivory-backed  prayer-book,  and  tijo 
photograph,  and  to  examine  them  carefully  again. 
Somehow  they  do  not  seem  so  thoroughly  con- 
vincing to  her  as  they  did  before.  Lord  Muir- 
avcn's  proper  name  is  certainly  "  Eric  HamiltoD," 
but  the  notes  are  only  signed  "  E.  H.,"  and  tiie 
name  of  Hamilton  is  very  common.  The  initials 
may  stand  for  Edward  Hamilton  or  Ernest  Hamil- 
ton. It  is  rather  poor  evidence  to  condemn  a  j 
man  upon  a  couple  of  initials.  The  handwriting 
she  could  never  positively  swear  to,  because  she 
has  never  seen  that  of  Lord  Muiraven's  except  Id 
answer  to  invitations,  and  these  notes  have  evi- 
dently been  written  hurriedly.  They  might  bo  I 
the  letters  of  anybody ;  she  will  think  no  more 
about  them.  But  the  photograph,  faded  as  it  ii, 
is  a  more  startling  witness  to  his  identity.  It  is 
not  flattering ;  cartes  -de-  visite  seldom  are ;  it  is 
too  dark,  and  he  is  frowning,  and  his  nose  and 
chin  are  out  of  focus.  Still,  as  she  twists  it 
about  in  the  clear  morning  light,  she  cannot  dcnv 
that  it  is  like  him — or  like  what  he  may  have  been 
some  years  ago.  Yet  it  seems  hard  to  accuse  a 
man  of  so  serious  a  fault  upon  the  evidence  of  a 
bit  of  cardboard  !    Irene  would  have  twisted  that 


THE  IVORY-BOUND  PRAYKIUBOOK. 


110 


photograph  up  and  down  and  round  about  until 
sUu  l»-»d  convinced  lanself  that  it  waa  not  the 
least  like  Lord  Muiravcn,  nor  ever  could  have 
been  ;  but  at  thia  moment  the  door  opens  to  ad- 
mit Tommy.  Here  comes  the  liviuj;  witness  of 
IjIj  father's  frailty  to  put  to  shame  all  the  inaui- 
uiite  mementos  by  which  she  is  trying  to  delude 
herielt'  into  the  notion  that  Lord  Muiravcn  is  an 
injured  man.  Ilerc  como  the  dark,  wavy  locks, 
the  deep -blue  eyes,  the  pointed  nose,  already 
fihowiiig  evidence  of  the  possession  of  a  bridge ; 
the  deep  chest  and  sturJy  limbs  that  Tommy's 
progenitor  must  certainly  have  displayed  when  at 
the  same  age  as  himself.  Irene  is  almost  cross 
with  the  little  fidlow  for  looking  so  abominably 
like  his  father. 

"  Oh !  he  must  have  been  the  man !  it  is  quite 
impossible  I  can  be  mistaken,"  she  inwardly  ejacu- 
lates as  she  throws  herself  into  a  chair.  "  Come 
here,  Tommy  I  What  on  earth  does  Phajbe  mean 
jy  parting  your  hair  in  the  middle,  just  as  if  you 
were  a  girl — it  makes  you  look  quite  absurd." 

"Gentleman  has  got  his  hair  parted  in  the 
middle ! "  says  Tommy,  alluding  to  Lord  Muiravcn. 

"That's  no  reason  you  should  have  it  too," 
replies  Irene,  quite  sharply,  as  she  divides  his 
curls  with  her  fingers,  and  effects  a  general  dis- 
turbance thereof,  of  which  her  protege  disap- 
proves. "  Sit  still,  can't  you  ?  What  a  dread- 
ful fidget  you  are !  " 

"  You  hurt ! "  says  Tommy,  at  last,  as  the 
tears  well  up  into  his  eyes  at  her  roughness.  At 
tliat  sight  her  mood  changes. 

"  Oh,  my  blessed  boy !  my  own  little  darling  ! 
do  you  want  to  go  away  from  your  poor  mamma, 
who  loves  you  so  ?  " 

"  I  v;orCt  go,  mamma,"  replies  Tommy,  stoutly. 
"  I  will  always  live  with  my  mamma,  and  take 
great  care  of  her,  I  will.'''' 

"  My  precious !  what  should  I  do  withoit  you  ? 
lie  would  never  be  so  cruel  as  to  take  you  i  way. 
And  yet,  were  he  to  know  the  truth,  how  could 
he  do  otherwise  ?  IIow  could  /  keep  you  ?  Oh, 
what  shall  I  do  ? 

"  I  will  not  give  him  up  in  a  hurry,"  she  rural- 
nates,  presently,  as  Tommy,  having  had  enough 
embraces,  wriggles  off  her  lap  again  and  runs 
away  to  play.  "  If  I  am  to  part  with  the  child, 
it  shall  only  be  upon  the  most  convincing  proofs 
of  the  relationship  between  them" — forgetting 
that  only  on  the  most  convincing  proofs  would 
Muiravcn  be  likely  to  acknowledge  the  responsi- 
biUty.  Brooding  on  this  resolution,  however, 
Irene  grows  cunning,  and,  bent  on  ascertaining 
the  truth,  lays  little  traps  wherein  to  catch  her 


guest,  inwardly  triumphing  uvi'ry  tiuie  they  fail. 
She  has  many  0|>p(>rtunitics  of  laying  them,  for 
her  spirits  are  lighter  and  brighter  after  the  shrub- 
bery tcu-d-lile,  aud  Muiravcn  enters  more  freely 
into  conversation  with  bur.  But  it  puzzles  him 
considi.rably  at  this  period  to  discover  what  mo- 
tive 'dio  can  have  for  continually  speaking  in 
p?..ablcs  to  him ;  or  why  she  should  drag  in  sub- 
jects irrelevant  to  the  matter  in  hand,  by  the 
head  and  shoulders,  as  she  is  so  fond  of  doing. 

"  What  a  beautiful  evening,"  he  roniarks,  cas- 
ually, as  the  whole  party  scat  themselves  after 
dinner  on  chairs  upon  the  lawn.  •'  I  consider 
the  evening  by  far  the  most  enjoyable  part  of  the 
day  at  this  season  of  the  year." 

"  If  one  has  a  clear  conscience,''  says  liiy 
hostess,  pointedly  ;  "  but  I  think,  if  I  had  wronged 
any  one  very  much  in  my  lifetime,  I  should  nevir 
be  able  to  enjoy  a  summer's  evening  again. 
Every  thing  seems  tio  pure  and  calm  then — one 
feels  so  near  heaven." 

"  I  am  afraid,  if  every  one  felt  the  same  as 
you  do,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  wo  should  have  to  shut 
up  summer  at  once.  We  have  all  wronged,  or 
been  wronged,  I  suppose,  during  our  lifetime." 

"But  I  mean  a  real  wrong  I — such  as  ruining 
the  happiness  of  another.  Don't  you  think  it  is 
the  very  wickedest  thing  a  person  can  do.  Lord 
Muiravcn  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  competent  to  judge.  I  think  I 
have  wronged  myself  more  than  anybody  else  in 
the  world  ;  at  all  events,  intentionally, "  he  adds, 
with  a  sigh. 

"  Ilave  you  had  your  photograph  taken  late- 
ly ?  "  she  goes  on  in  the  wildest  manner. 

"  My  photograph  !  No !  My  dear  old  father 
insisted  upon  my  sitting  for  a  portrait  in  oils 
last  autumn.  That  was  bad  enough,  but  nothing 
to  being  photographed.    AVhy  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Irene  is  ambitious  to  fill  that  pretentious- 
looking  album  that  lies  on  the  drawing-room  table 
as  quickly  as  possible,"  says  Colonel  Mordaunt, 
laughing. 

"  Indeed  I  am  not !  I  call  that  album  my 
menagerie.  It  contains  such  a  set  of  gorillas. 
So  few  people  take  well.  Do  you  ? "  addressing 
Muiravcn  again. 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you.  It  is  so  long  since  I 
was  immortalized  by  the  photographic  art.  Not 
siiico — let  me  see — " 

"  Since  when  ?  "  she  interposes,  eagerly. 

"  The  year  before  last,  I  think.  The  London 
Stereoscopic  Company  had  the  honor  of  taking 
me  just  before  I  left  town,  and  I  never  even  asked 
for  n  proof  of  the  photograph." 


It  >,f 

ill! 


,11 


m- 


120 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


"  You  must  have  ha<l  soraetliing  very  engross- 
ing on  your  mind  just  tlien,  Muiravcn,"  rcmarlts 
tlie  colonel. 

"  I  liaU  indeed." 

"  Wiiat  made  you  Hit  to  them  at  all  1 " 

"  I  sat  because  I  Ijopcd  the  result  of  my  sit- 
ting might  be  acceptable  to  a  friend  whom  I  had 
At  that  time,  and  I  neglected  to  send  for  the 
photographs  because  I  found  they  would  not  be 
so ;  and  all  interest  in  them  departed  with  the 
knowledge." 

"A  woman,  of  course,  Muiravcn?  Nothing 
but  a  woman,  or  the  wind,  could  change  in  so 
short  a  time." 

"  I  did  not  say  she  changed,  colonel." 

"Then  perhaps  it  was  yourself.  He  looks 
fickle — doesn't  he,  Irene  ?  " 

"  Then  he  looks  what  he  is  not,"  rejoins  Muir- 
avcn. "Can  I  fetch  any  thing  for  you,  Mrs. 
Mordaunt  ?  "  as  she  rises  from  her  chair. 

"  No,  thank  you  [  " 

In  another  minute  she  is  back  again  with  the 
ivory-bound  prayer-book  in  her  hand.  She  is  go- 
ing to  make  her  first  grand  experiment  with  thr.t. 

"  What  have  you  there,  Irene  ?  "  says  her  hus- 
band. 

"Only  a  prayer  book.  A  pretty  little  thing, 
isn't.  Lord  Muiravcn  ?  "  holding  it  out  for  his  in- 
spection :  he  examines  it  without  the  slightest 
change  of  countenance. 

"  Well,  if  you  want  my  candid  opinion,  Mrs. 
Mordaunt,  you  must  allow  me  to  say  that  I  do 
not  agree  with  you.  I  suppose  it  is  quite  a  lady's 
idea  of '  pretty  ; '  but  it  looks  very  useless  to  me. 
Is  it  a  real  prayer-book  or  a  hoax  ?  " 

"  Open  it  and  see.  It  ia  any  thing  but  a 
hoax." 

"  So  I  perceive.  I  thought  it  niight  prove  to 
be  a  honhonnierc,  or  a  powder  puff-box,  or  some 
other  little  feminine  secret.  So  it  is  really  and 
truly  a  prayer-book  ?  " 

"Of  course!  Have  ^  ou  never  seen  one  like 
that  before  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  not  so  small,  I  think.  What  a 
surprising  print !  I  should  have  no  eyes  in  a 
twelvemonth  if  I  used  a  book  like  this." 

"  And  you  have  really  never  seen  an  ivory- 
backed  prayer-book  before,  or  bought  one  ?  " 

"  Haven't  I !  I  had  to  fork  out  five  guineas 
for  a  church  service  for  my  Sister-in-law  that  is 
to  be,  the  other  day.  She  took  a  fancy  to  it, 
and  Cecil  was  so  stingy,  he  wouldn't  buy  it  for 
her,  so  I  was  compelled  to.  It  was  a  very  fat 
one,  quite  apoplectic,  in  fact,  and  bound  in  ivory 
and  silver.    She  said  she  should  consider  it  as  a 


weddin.'^-present ;   but  I   know    I  sliali  have  to 
give  her  another,  all  the  same." 

"  Well !    I  can't  understand  it,"  says  Irene. 

"  My  being  generous  for  once  in  a  way  ?  Oli 
Mrs.  Mordaunt ! " 

"  Give  me  back  that  little  prayer-book,  plpuso, 
I  am  sure  you  must  have  seen  plenty  like  it  be- 
fore.    They're  as  common  as  possible." 

"  I  dare  say  I  have,  but — please  forgive  niv 
country  manners,  Mrs.  Mordaunt — I  really  don't 
seem  to  care  if  I  ever  see  one  like  it  again.  It'j 
a  most  sliockingly  attenuated  little  book;  it  looks 
as  though  it  had  been  reared  on  water-gruel,  and 
reminds  me  only  of  a  pale,  shriveled-up,  sickk 
old  moid.     It  jars  most  terribly  upon  my  feelings." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  have  any,"  slfe  answers," 
quickly ;  and  her  husband  thinks  she  is  in  fun, 
and  laughs  at  the  accusation,  in  which  Muiravcn 
joins  him.  At  this  moment  Colonel  Mordaunt  is 
called  away  to  hold  an  interview  with  his  bailiff, 
and  in  the  quickly-falling  dusk,  alone  with  tbiir 
guest  (Isabella  having  crept  away  some  time  be- 
fore), Irene  feels  bold  enough  to  make  anotbir 
attempt  at  discovery  of  the  truth. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  nnnoj-cd  nt  the  disre- 
spectful manner  in  which  I  spoke  of  your  exceed- 
ingly pretty  little  prayer-book,"  says  Muiravcn, 
breaking  the  ice  for  her. 

"It  is  not  mine,"  she  answers,  briefly;  "it 
belonged  to  Tommy's  mother.  I  am  keep'iig  it 
for  him." 

"  Indeed  !  that  makes  it  interesting.  Is  it 
long  since  she  died  ?  " 

"  Nearly  a  twelvemonth.  I  have  several  of 
her  little  possessions — a  photograph  among  the 
number." 

"  What,  of— of— the  child's  father  ?  " 

"  I  conclude  so." 

"You  must  take  great  care  of  it.  It  may 
prove  of  the  utmost  use  some  day  in  tracing  his 
parentage." 

"  So  I  think.  His  poor  mother  had  been  so 
utterly  deserted  that  the  only  clew  she  could  gi.e 
me  was  the  name  (which  she  had  discoverr  J  to 
ba  false)  by  which  the  man  who  betrayed  her 
called  himself.  I  wonder,  if  I  ever  meet  that  man, 
or  discover  his  identity,  whether  I  should  be 
bound  to  give  the  child  up  to  him.  What  is 
your  opinion.  Lord  Muiravcn  ?  " 

"  You  set  mc  rather  a  difficult  task,  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt. It  so  entirely  depends  upon  whether  the 
father  will  be  anxious  to  assume  his  guardianship 
or  not.  He  could  claim  the  boy,  of  course,  if  he 
could  prove  his  right  to  do  so  ;  but  the  greater 
probability  is,  that  he  would  deny  the  relation 


INTERESTING   QUESTIONS. 


121 


w    I  filial  I  have  to 
It 

d  it,"  soys  Irciip. 
ICC  in  a  way  ?    0!i, 

>raycr-bcok,  please. 
L  plenty  like  it  be 
possible." 
-please  forgive  niy 
.unt — I  really  don't 
3  like  it  again.  It'a 
little  book;  it  looks 
on  water  gruel,  nnj 
3hrivcled-up,  sickly 
y  upon  my  feelings." 
any,"  slfo  answers, ' 
links  she  is  in  fun, 
in  which  Muiravoa 
Colonel  Mordaunt  if 
iew  with  his  bailiff, 
sk,  alone  with  tluir 
iway  some  time  be- 
h  to  make  anothir 
:uth. 

aoytd  nt  the  disre- 
poke  of  your  exceed 
ak,"  says  Muiravcn, 

piswers,  briefly;  "it 
•     I  am  keep'iig  it 

t  interesting.    I3  it 

I  have  several  o( 
)tograph  among  the 

I's  father  ?  " 

:arc  of  it.     It  may 
day  in  tracing  his 

lothcr  had  been  so 

clew  she  could  »'  .e 

had  discoverrJ  to 

who  betrayed  hot 

ever  meet  that  ni.iii, 

lether  I  should  be 

to  hira.     What  is 

?" 

icult  task,  Mrs.  Mor- 
s  upon  whether  the 
me  his  guardianship 
)oy,  of  course,  if  he 
i;  but  the  greater 
deny  the  relation 


If  hip.  Had  he  had  any  intention  of  acting  the 
|ii.irt  of  a  parent  to  his  child,  ho  would  never 
Ihavc  abandoned  the  mother." 

"You  think  bo— it  is  your  real  opinion?" 
Ishe  demands,  eagerly. 

"I  think  every  one  must  think  so.     Poor  lit- 

Itle  Tommy  is  most  fortunate  to  have  fallen  into 

\our  hands.    You  may  depend  upon  it,  you  will 

iicvcr  be  troubled  by  a  gratuitous  application  for 

Dmn?" 

"  IIow   hard-hearted  soir.o  men    are ! "   she 

biqhs. 

"They  are  brutes!"  replies  her  companion, 
lliterminately ;  and  Irene  is  more  puzzled  than 

before. 

"  Lord  Muiravcn — "  she  commences  again. 

"  I  am  all  attention,  Mrs.  Mordaunt." 

"  If  I  were  to  arrive,  accidentally,  at  the  knowl- 
ilffO  of  who  is  the  child's  father,  and  found  he 
)r.i«  not  aware  of  the  fact  of  his  existence,  ought 
1  to  make  it  known  to  him  ?  " 

"Ccrta/n/i//" 

"  You  arc  sure  ?  " 

"  Qtti/e  sure  ! — unless  you  wish  to  injure  both 
k.irent  and  child.  Howe'.  3r  kind  and  good  you 
day  be  to  him,  no  one  can  care  for  a  boy,  or  ad- 
laiicc  his  interests  in  life,  as  a  father  can  ;  and 
Ife,  under  the  most  favorable  circumstances,  will 
|e  a  serious  thing  for  poor  little  Tommy.  If  you 
Ire  to  keep  him,  I  am  sorry  he  is  not  a  girl.  I  am 
P'raid  you  will  find  him  troublesome  by-and-by." 

"  I  have  no  fear  of  that — only  of  his  being 
tkcn  away  from  me.  Still — if  you  consider  it 
rould  be  right — " 

"  Do  you  know  who  his  father  is,  then  ?  " 

"I think  I  do;  but,  please,  don't  mention  it 
^ain :  it  is  quite  a  secret." 

"  Well,  if  I  were  in  that  man's  place,  I  should 
kink  that  you  were  wronging  me ;  but  it  is  a 
latter  of  opinion.  Tommy's  fiithcr  may — and 
robably  will — be  only  too  glad  to  leave  him  in 
loui'  hands." 

"But  if  it  were  you?" 

"If  it  were  me,  I  shoula  prefer  to  look  after 
ly  own  child  ;  I  should  not  feel  justified  in  dcl- 
kating  the  duty  to  another.     I  should  consider 

the  only  reparation  that  lay  in  my  power  to 
lake  him  :  and  any  one  who  deprived  me  of  it, 
lould  rob  me  of  the  means  of  exhibiting  my 
Icnitence." 

This  burst  of  eloquence  decides  her.  Sorely 
i  she  will  mourn  his  loss,  she  dares  not  keep  Tom- 
my's parentage  a  secret  ony  longer.  If  he  be- 
ings to  Lord  Muiravcn,  to  Lord  Muiravcn  he  must 
But  she  hardlv  dares  think  what  Fen  Court 


will  look  like  when  both  of  tlieiii  arc  lo.-t  to  view 
again. 

"  How  you  have  been  crying'!"  remarks  her 
husband  the  next  day,  as  she  issues  from  her 
morning-room,  and  unexpectedly  confronts  him. 

"  It  is  no  matter,"  she  answers,  evasively,  iis 
she  tries  to  pass  him  to  go  up-stairs.  She  is 
vexed  that  he  has  commented  on  her  appearance, 
for  the  house-keeper  is  standing  in  the  Imll  at  the 
same  time. 

"  Hut  it  does  signify,"  ho  continues,  pertina- 
ciously. "Wh.'it  is  the  reason  of  it?  Are  you 
ill?" 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  but  I  have  been  turning 
over  old  letters  and  papers  this  morning — and  it 
is  never  a  pleasant  task  to  undertake.  I  nhall  be 
all  right  again  by  luncheon-time,"  and  she  es- 
capes to  the  shelter  of  her  bedroom. 

"  Lor,  colonel !  how  inconsiderate  you  arc, 
questioning  madam  about  the  whys  and  where- 
fores of  every  thing!"  ejaculates  Mis.  Quekett. 
"As  if  a  lady  could  turn  over  her  stock  of  treas- 
ures— her  little  tokens  and  bits  of  hair  and  old 
love-letters,  without  bringing  the  tears  to  her 
eyes.  You've  no  knowledge  at  all  of  women, 
colonel,  and  it  seems  to  nic  you've  quite  forgot- 
ten you  ever  were  young  yourself." 

"  But  to  sec  her  eyes  so  red  as  that !  "  ex- 
claims Colonel  Mordaunt. 

"  IJless  you !  do  you  think  when  you  marry  a 
woman,  you  walk  at  once  into  all  her  troubles 
and  secrets,  past,  present,  and  to  come  ?  Colonel, 
you've  the  least  discrimination  of  any  man  I  ever 
knew.  She  might  just  as  well  expect  you  to  turn 
out  the  bundle  of  your  past  life — and  thcre'd  bo 
a  pretty  kettle  of  fish  if  you  did — that  /  know  !  " 

"  Y'ou  have  the  most  extraordinary  habit, 
Quekett,  of  talking  of  one's  private  affairs  in 
public  places.  I  wisli  you'd  remember  where  you 
arc." 

"  Very  well,  colonel :  that's  a  hint  for  nic  to 
go.  But  I  couldn't  help  putting  in  a  word  for 
Mrs.  Mordaunt.  You  mustn't  expect  too  much 
ofher.  She's  yours  —  be  content  with  tliit. 
Wiser  men  than  you  have  found  it  best,  before 
now,  to  keep  their  eyes  half  shut."  And  with 
that,  Mrs.  Quekett,  picking  up  a  thread  here,  and 
a  scrap  of  paper  there,  disappears  quite  naturally 
into  the  morning-room.  Irene,  meanwhile,  is 
bathing  her  eyes  in  cold  water.  She  has  really 
boon  only  occupied  in  turning  over  old  papers — 
the  papers  that  concern  Tommy — and  trying  to 
write  a  letter  to  Lord  Muiravcn  on  the  subject, 
which  shall  tell  all  she  wishes  him  to  know, 
in  lang^iagc  not  too  plain.    But  she  has  found  the 


m 


M    »1 


m 


i 


1,3 


m 


i 


r 


122 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


Ilil 

1 

iiiiil'' 

II 

^  [  lloHii'  J 

ii  \i,, 

'k4    P'ffiwfni   1 

■^^si ' 

"i 

H'  .''  yKKr! 

^ ' 

rh 

p 

f  1  '^nr 

7       '-^^^A^l 

1 1'j 

^  ''Hl^ 

9wl|; 

I 

iP|i|' 

1 

1  jmlMlM'SRf 

i 

1  ygfCglMBjJti 

i 

'M 

1 

1 

n 

"IHi 

i 

t  JH 

1 

task  more  ditncult  than  she  unticipatt'd ;  ugly 
thingii  look  so  luucli  more  ugly  wliun  tlioy  are 
written  down  iu  black  and  wbitc.  She  has  made 
five  or  ti'ix  attciujitH,  and  they  are  all  in  Ihewayte- 
papcr  ba.skct.  A.s  hIio  comes  down-stairs  to 
lunehuon,  looking  ((uite  hcrHclf  again,  and  parses 
through  the  morning-room,  iicr  eyes  calch  sight 
of  these  same  iVagmentary  records  Iving  jigiitiy 
one  upon  tiic  other,  and  i<hc  thinks  how  foolish 
it  was  of  her  to  leave  them  for  any  one  to  read 
who  passed  that  way.  The  gong  is  sounding  in 
the  hall,  and  the  gentlemen's  voices  arc  heard 
from  the  dining-room  ;  so  she  gathers  the  torn 
sheets  of  paper  hastily  together,  and  thrusting 
them  into  a  drawer  of  her  davenport,  turns  the 
key  upon  them  until  she  shall  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  destroying  them  more  thoroughly.  But 
she  cannot  imagine  what  makes  her  husband  so 
silent  and  constrained,  during  lunch  that  day — 
and  concludes  something  nnist  be  going  wrong 
with  the  farm,  and  trusts  Philip  is  not  going  to 
break  through  his  general  rule  of  keeping  out- 
door worries  for  out-door  consideration  ;  or  that 
rhilip  is  not  going  to  develop  a  new  talent  for 
indulging  in  the  sulks — which  appears  to  be  the 
likeliest  solution  of  the  change  at  present. 

The  next,  day  is  the  one  fixed  for  Lord  Muir- 
aven's  departure,  and  the  colonel  no  longer  presses 
him  to  stay. 

As  breakfast  is  concluded  and  the  carriage  is 
ordered  round  to  convey  him  and  his  portmanteau 
to  the  station,  Irene  remembers  her  attempted 
letter  of  the  day  befoie,  and  feels  sorry  that  It 
proved  a  failure.  She  foresees  a  greater  difficulty 
in  writing  to  him  through  the  post,  and  does  not 
even  know  where  to  address  him.  Colonel  Mor- 
dauat  has  fidgeted  off  to  the  stables  to  worry  the 
grooma  into  harnessing  the  horses  at  least  ten 
minutes  before  the  time  that  they  were  ordered 
to  be  ready ;  and  (except  for  Tommy,  who  inter- 
rupts the  conversation  at  every  second  word)  she 
U  left  alone  with  their  guest. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  commences,  timidly,  "  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you.  Lord  Muiraven,  before 
you  went — that  is  to  say,  I  have  something  rather 
particular  to  tell  you." 

"  Have  you  ?  Oh,  tell  it  now  !  "  he  ex- 
claims eagerly,  his  hopes  rising  at  the  idea  that 
she  has  plucked  up  courage  to  allude  to  the 
past. 

"  I  could  not — it  would  take  too  much  time ; 
besides,  it  is  a  subject  on  which  I  would  much 
rather  write  to  you." 

"  Will  you  write  to  me  ?  " 


.v„. 


"I  did  write  yesterday — only  I  tore  up  ii;| 
letter." 

"  What  a  gln.me  I     Whatever  it  was,  wljj ,;;  I 
you  not  let  me  have  it  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  satisfy  myself;  it  was  too  ha:; 
a  task.  Only — should  I  be  able  to  do  so — win . 
may  I  address  to  you  ?  " 

"  To  the  St.  James's  Club,  or  Berwick  Casu 
My  letters  will  always  be  forvarded  from  ti!l,.| 
place." 

"  Forwarded  !  Arc  you  not  going  to  Londv: 
then  ? " 

"  Only  for  a  day  or  two.  I  leave  Englat;| 
nest  week  for  India." 

"  India  !     What  should  take  you  there?" 

"  Hopelessness,  Irene ! " 

"  Hush ! " 

"  Mamma,  why  did  gentleman  call  you  Rem! 
interposes  Tommy  from  the  folds  of  her  drcsj. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  murmurs,  "  I  am  very  cart 
less.  What  takes  me  to  India,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  J 
idleness  and  love  of  change.  Last  autumn  I  $ptnl 
in  the  United  States  ;  this  I  hope  to  do  pig-stiiil 
ing  iu  liengal ;  and  the  next  will  probablyfiil 
me  in  Tasmania.  What  would  you  have  me  iA 
I  am  independent,  and  restless,  and  in  ncid:: 
excitement;  and  there  is  nothing  to  keepiutJ 
home." 

"  Your  father.  Lord  Muiraven ! " 

"  My  father  knows  that  I  am  never  so  W^ 
discontented  as  when  I  am  traveling,  and  soil 
consents  to  it.  And  he  has  my  brother.  AniJ 
have — no  .ne." 

"  But  India !  such  an  unhealthy  climate, 
thought  nobody  went  ther>.  for  choice." 

"  On  the  contrary,  to  go  there  for  choiceii 
the  only  way  to  enjoy  the  country.  I  can  rciiiJ 
whenever  I  like,  you  know.  And  as  to  tlie  cl 
mate,  it  cannot  be  worse  than  that  of  New  YoiJ 
where  the  hot  weather  sweeps  off  its  sixty  heaJ  j 
day." 

"And  you  will  return — when  ?  " 

"  In  about  six  months,  I  hope,  that  is  nld 
the  hot  season  recommences.  I  do  not  go  uIoi)| 
A  cousin  of  ray  own,  and  a  very  jolly  fellow  ( 
the  name  of  Stratford,  go  with  me.  I  shall  coaj 
back  so  brown,  you  won't  know  me. — What  s 
I  bring  you  home  from  India,  Tommy  ?  A  IJ 
elephant  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes !  bring  a  lum  -  a  -  lum. — Mamiii 
gentleman  going  to  bring  Tommy  a  big  lanj 
lum-a-lum ! " 

"  And  you  will  really  be  awoy  six  montlii 
she  soys,  dreamily.  She  is  thinking  that  hero  ll 
respite  from  divulging  the  secret  of  her  adopt! 


LORD  MUIRAVENS  DEPARTURE. 


123 


-only  I  tore  up  li,; 

;cvcr  it  was,  wlijii;,, 

,elf ;  It  wtts  tuo  liar;| 
iblc  to  do  90— wilt 

b,  or  Bcrwiok  Cast,! 
)rvariled  from  ci'.K.f 

not  going  to  Loiid^: 

10.     I  leave  Engkt; 

take  you  there  ? " 


jman  call  you  Rcnv: 
I  folds  of  her  dies.<. 
lura,  "  I  am  very  ca:-| 
idia,Mr3.  Mordaunt,! 
Last  autumn  I  spval 
I  hope  to  do  pi};-stiii| 
jst  will  probably  fe  I 
ould  you  have  mo  d  I 
stless,  and  in  nccd.j 
nothing  to  keepiut:] 

liravcu ! " 
it  I  am  never  so  liiiij 
m  traveling,  and  sob 
IS  my  brother.    Anil 

unhealthy  climatt. 

for  choice." 

go  there  for  choiwii 

country.    I  can  rcwi^ 

And  as  to  the  cIl 

ban  that  of  New  Yoi'J 

jeps  off  its  sixty  lioalj 

-when  ?  " 
!,  I  hope,  that  \i  wt^ 
•es.  I  do  not  go  alot 
a  very  jolly  fellow 
with  me.  1  shall  con 
know  me. — What  M 
ndia.  Tommy  ?    A  l^ 

him  -  a  -  lum.— Manm 
g  Tommy  a  big  lai^ 

be  away  sis  moniliil 
I  thmking  that  here  ii] 
secret  of  her  adop« 


fhiU'i   parentage,  for,  if   Lord   Muiraven's   ar-  i 

.aiigoiiieiits  for  leaving  the  country  are  ill  com- 

(Ictuil,  lie  would  iiardly  thank  her  fv,r  thrusting 

10  oui'.Dii.s  a  charge  upon  him  as  the  guardian- 

lip  of  a  little  child  on  the  very  eve  of  his  depart. 

re,    But  ho  niiiinterprets   tlio  subdued   tone ; 

10  reads  in  it,  or  thinks  he  reudtt,  a  tender  regret 

i)r  Ills  contcmpliited  absence,  and  U  ready  to  re- 

iKiiiish  every  plan  which  he  has  made  upon  the 

Ipot. 

"  I  tliought  of  lieing  so,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,"  ho 

plieti,  quickly,  "  but  if  there  were  any  chance — 

iiv  hopo — if  I  believed  that  any  one  here — oh  ! 

|i<\i  know  what  I  mean  so  much  better  than  I  can 

;pro83  it ;  if  yon  wish  rue  not  to  go,  Irene,  say 

lie  word,  and  I  will  remain  in  England  forever  1 " 

"  Gentleman  say  Reny  again,"  remarks  Tom- 
ir,  as  he  pulls  his  adopted  mother's  skirts  and 
loks  up  in  her  face  for  an  explanation  of  the 
ivelty. 

"Bother  that  child!"'  exclaims  JIuiraven, 
igrily. 

"Be  quiet.  Tommy!  Go  and  play,"  replies 
:onc.— "Lord  Muiraven,  you  quite  mistake  my 
leaning.    X  think  it  is  a  very  good  thing  for  you 

go  about  and  travel ;  and  am  glad  that  you 
loulJ  be  able  to  enjoy  yonrself.  I  was  oidy 
liuking  of— my  letter." 

Send  it  ma.     Pray  send  it  to  my  club.     I 
lall  be  there  to-morrow  !  " 

"I  do  not  think  I  shall.  It  was  only  about — 
it  child"  in  a  lover  voice.  "  Do  you  remember 
lat  yon  said  once  about  being  a  friend  to  him 
he  lost  rae  ?  " 

"  Perfectly ;  and  I  am  ready  to  redeem  my 
ird!" 

"  Should  any  thing  happen  while  you  are  ab- 
it,  Lord  Muiraven,  will  you  take  care  of  him 

your  return?  The  letter  I  spoke  of — and 
lich  will  contain  every  thing  I  know  about  his 
Irentage — I  will  leave  behind  me,  sealed  and 
[dressed  to  you.    Will  you  promise  me  to  ask 

it,  and  to  follow  up  any  clew  it  may  give  you 
faithfully  as  may  be  in  your  power  ?  " 

"  I  promise.  But  why  speak  of  your  death, 
[less  you  wish  to  torture  me  ? " 

"  Is  it  so  great  a  misfortune,  then,  to  pass  he- 
ld all  the  trouble  of  this  world,  and  be  safely 
ided  on  the  other  shore  ?  " 

"For  you — no! — but  for  myself — I  am  too 
[fish  to  be  able  even  to  contemplate  such  a  con- 
igency  with  composure.  If  I  thought  it  prob- 
le,  or  even  possible,  nothing  should  take  me 
im  England  I    You  are  not  ill  ?  " 

"Xot  in  the  least!    I  only  spoke  of  death 


coming  to  Hic  lis  it,  might  come  to  you,  or  any 
om; — I  do  nnt  ilc^ire  it — I  am  content  to  live,  of 
—or—" 

Iler  voice  breaks. 

"  Ov—iehdti    For  Heaven's  sake,  speak  !  " 

"  /  wa»  so  hi'forc  we  uict  tir/nin  !  " 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  utters ;  "  why  did  I  not  put 
a  bullet  through  my  brains  l)erorc  I  was  mad 
enough  to  come  here  ?  " 

He  walks  up  to  the  mantelpiece  as  though  he 
could  not  bear  to  meet  her  gaze,  and  she  catches 
up  the  child  and  sets  him  on  the  embrasured  win- 
dow-sill before  her,  and  looks  into  his  eyes  with 
her  own  brimming  over  with  tears. 

Each  has  spoken  to  the  other ;  the  pent-up 
cry  of  their  burdened  hearts  has  broken  forth  at 
length ;  and  they  stand  silent  and  ashamed  and 
overwhelmed  in  the  presence  of  Nature.  Tommy 
is  the  first  to  recall  them  to  a.  sense  of  their  ctiuiv- 
ocal  position. 

"  Mamma  is  crying,"  he  observe.*,  pointedly. 
"  Naughty  gentleman." 

His  shrill  little  voice  attraeis  the  attention  of 
Mrs.  Quekett,  who  is  loitering  in  the  hall  (a  favor- 
ite occupation  of  hers  during  that  season  of  the 
year  when  the  sitting-room  doors  stand  open), 
and  she  immediately  commence.^,  noiselessly,  to 
rearrange  the  pieces  of  old  china  that  onuiment 
the  shelves  of  a  carved  oak  buffet  outside  the 
dining-room. 

At  the  sound  of  the  child's  words,  Muiraven 
quits  his  place,  and,  advanchig  to  Irene,  takes  her 
hand. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  says,  earnestly,  "for  alt 
that  I  have  brought  upon  you.  Say  that  you  for- 
give me ! " 

Mrs.  Quekett  pricks  up  her  cars  like  a  hunter 
when  the  dogs  give  tongue. 

"You  wrong  me  by  the  request,"  Irene  an- 
swers. "  I  cannot  think  how  I  forgot  myself  so 
far  as  to  say  what  I  did ;  but  I  trust  you  never  to 
take  advantage  of  my  words." 

"  Except  in  letting  their  memory  lighten  my 
existence,  I  never  will.  And  I  thank  you  so  much 
for  permitting  me  to  feel  we  have  a  mutual  inter- 
est in  this  child.  I  see  that  he  is  very  dear  to 
you." 

"He  is  indeed!  I  don't  think  any  mother 
could  love  a  child  more  than  I  do  him." 

''  And  you  will  let  me  love  him  too.  He  shall 
be  the  link  between  us ;  the  commoa  ground  on 
which  we  may  meet — the  memory  left,  to  which- 
ever goes  first,  of  the  affection  of  the  other. 
Henceforward  Tommy  shall  have  a  father  as  well 
as  a  mother." 


I' 


■II 

4  '  I' 


:}  >  •• 


124 


"NO  INTENTIONS. 


"I  will  1)0  sine  unci  1<  iv(.«  tho  letter  that  I 
fipokc  of." 

"Anil  yon  will  not  writf  to  iiif — not  onu  line 
to  clu'cr  me  ill  any  wny  ?  " 

"I  must  not ;  anil  it  would  bu  impoi'slble  if  I 
couK'      Wluii  you  rftiirn — ..i-ihaps — " 

" Ii  you  any  tliuf,  I  «luiU  return  to-nionow. ' 

At  tliiti  iiionient  the  carriugo-whculs  ai'c  heard 
gnitiiiR  on  the  {^ravel-drive. 

"  Here  is  the  colonel,  Mrs.  Morduunt !  " 

Ii'i.'no  ptiirts  —  Hii.sliL's  —  and  withdraws  her 
hand  quiukly  from  that  of  Lord  Muirnvcti. 

Mrs.  Quekett,  duster  in  iiand,  is  locdving  in  nt 
tlie  open  door. 

"  The  colonel !  "  cries  Muiravcn,  looking  at  his 
watch  to  cover  their  confu.«lou;  "how  time  flies! 
it  is  nearly  eleven. — Well,  good-by,  Mrs.  Mor- 
diumt.  I  shall  have  nhot  a  real  Bengal  tiger  be- 
fore \vc  meet  again." 

"  Tiger  will  cat  you,"  interpolates  Tommy, 
scntentiously. 

"  Oh,  take  care  of  yourself,"  says  Irene,  w  ith 
quick  alarm. 

"  I  will — believe  me  !  .«incc  you  ask  it ! — How 
big  is  tho  lum-a-lum  to  be.  Tommy  ?  Ten  feet 
high  ?  " 

"  As  tall  as  the  house,"  replies  Tommy. 

"Are  your  traps  brought  down-stairs  yet, 
Muiraven  ?  "  demands  Colonel  Mordaunt,  as  he 
enters  the  room.  "  Wo  haven't  much  time  to 
spare,  if  you're  to  catch  the  one-o'clock  train. — 
That  fellow  William,  is  shirking  his  work  again, 
Irene ;  I  found  the  gray  filly  with  her  roller  off. 
I  declare  there's  no  getting  one's  servants  to  do 
any  thing  unless  one  is  ronstantly  at  their  heels." 

"  Look  what  gentleman  given  me ! "  says  Tom- 
my, who  has  been  occupied  with  Lord  Muiraven 
at  the  window, 

"  Your  watch  and  chain ! "  exclaims  Irene. 
"  Oh,  no,  Lord  Muiraven,  indeed  you  must  not. 
Think  how  young  the  child  is.  You  are  too  gen- 
erous." 

"  Generous ! "  says  the  colonel ;  "  it's  d — d 
foolish,  Muiraven,  if  you'll  excuse  ray  saying  so. 
The  boy  will  never  be  in  a  position  to  use  it,  and 
it  will  be  smashed  in  an  hour," 

"  No !  that  it  shall  not  be,  Philip.  7  will  take 
care  Lord  Muiraven's  kindness  is  not  abused — 
only  a  toy  would  have  been  so  much  better." 

•'  Pray  let  him  keep  it,  Mrs.  Mordaunt.  It  will 
be  rather  a  relief  to  got  rid  of  it,  I  so  much  pre- 
fer to  wear  dear  old  Bob's,  that  was  sent  home  to 
me  last  autumn," 

"  You  certainly  must  have  more  watches  than 
you  know  what  to  do  with,"  grumbles  the  colo- 


nel.— "Put  Lord  Muiraven's  poi-tmanteaiiK  linij 
carriage,  James.  Wait  a  mir.ute.  Let  me  ,«|i(ill 
to  the  coachman." 

Irene  has  taken  tho  wateh  from  tlio  chiliii 
hand,  and  is  holding  it  in  her  own. 

"It  is  so  kind  of  you,"  she  murmurs. 

"  Not  at  all ;  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me.    Ki([. 
as  a  pletlge  of  what  I  have  promised  in  res|nct  :| 
him.     And  if  I  thouglit  you  sometimos  wore  • 
Irene,  in  remembrance  of  our  friendship,  it  wo, 
make  me  so  happy." 

"  I  will." 

"Thanks — God  bless  you!"   and,  wjih  ,. 
long  look  and  pressure,  he  is  gone. 

Irene  takes  an  opportunity  during  the  nX 
ceeding  day  to  examine  her  behavior  and  ilji 
tivcs  very  searchingly,  but  she  thinks  that,  on  ;i  I 
whole,  she  has  acted  right.     What  cotdd  Mil 
avcn  have  done  with  a  young  child  just  as  lioi.] 
starting  for  a  place  like  India?     He  eoiiii 
have  taken  Tommy  with  him;   he  would  la:| 
been  compelled  to  leave  him  in  England  unil 
the  care  of  strangers;  who,  in  the  evert  oflJ 
father  dying  abroad,  would  have  had  him  rcDr.( 
and  educated  without  any  reference  to  hem. 
Yes  !  she  believes  she  has  done  what  is  best  f 
all  parties.     When  Muiraven  returns  she  nilltJ 
him  the  truth,  and  let  him  do  as  he  thinks  i\ 
but,  until  that  event  occurs,  she  shall  kecpt! 
child  to  herself.    And,  as  the  blankness  ofi 
knowledge   of  his  departure  returns  upon  1 
every  now  and  then  during  that  afternoon,  (iJ 
catches  up  Tommy  in  her  arms  ariu  oPiothcrs  bi^ 
with  kisses,  as  she  reflects  with  secret  joy  ib 
she  has  something  of  Muiraven  left  her  still,  II(| 
surprised  she  would  bo  to  compare  her  prcid 
feelings  with  those  with  which  she  first  lean 
the  news  of  the  boy's  paternity  ! 

The  sin  and  shame  of  that  past  folly  are  il 
less  shocking  to  her  than  they  were ;  but  the  siaT 
has  been  withdrawn  from  them,  Eric  love  JA 
He  was  not  base  and  cruel  and  deceitful ;  it  rJ 
Fate  that  kept  them  separate ;  and,  on  til 
strength  of  his  own  word,  he  is  forgiven  for  CT,j 
thing — past,  present,  and  to  come  !  Whnt  is  tli^ 
woman  will  not  forgive  to  the  man  she  loves? 

Irene  almost  believes  this  afternoon  tliat.l 
she  is  but  permitted  to  bring  «p  Tommy  toi 
worthy  of  his  father,  so  that  when  he  is  a  iij 
and  Eric  is  still  lonely  and  unmarried,  she  cl 
present  them  to  each  other,  and  say,  "  Here  i.<| 
son  to  bless  and  comfort  your  old  age,"  she 
desire  nothing  more  to  make  life  happy,  il 
feeling  more  light-hearted  and  content  than 


A  SECRET  UXDERSTANDI\(}. 


125 


'g  portmantcaiiH  Inib. 
liiiiitc.     Lit  iiic  C]ini| 


niKl,     Willi    l;. 


i,as  (lone  for  many  a  day— although  Muiruvoii 
La  put  tuiloi  betwocn  them — gocn  Hinging  about 
lln,  ,f.ji(li u  ill  the  evening,  like  u  blitheiouio  bird. 
IIerc.ii;illi"o  rather  disturbs  Colonel  Mordaunt, 

lio  (wiili  hU  study-window  open)  i.s  busy  with 
\,\i  farin-aeiounts ;  and  making  small  way  as  it 

:  niib  M>-i.  Quekett  standing  ut  his  right  liand, 
kiiJ  putting  in  1'  ••  oar  at  every  seccmd  figure. 

"Xot  oat.'*,  colonel;  it  was  hurley  Clayton 
Lrought  in  last  week ;  and  if  ua  eye's  any  thing 
L .«()  I)V|  ti'ii  sacks  short,  as  I'm  a  living  woman." 

•  How  can  you  tell,  Quekctt  ?  "  replies  the 
Lionel,  fretfully ;  "  did  you  see  them  counted  ?  " 

•  Coimted  1  Is  it  my  business  to  watch  your 
Itablc-meu  do  their  work?  " 

"  Of  course  not ;  but  I  suppose  names  was 
llicre ;  he  is  generally  sharp  enough  upon  Clay- 
Ion." 

"  Well,  there  it  is  in  the  granary — easy  enough 
I  look  at  it.    It  seems  short  enough  measure  to 
lie.    IVrlmps  some  has  been  taken  since  it  was 
liilwded." 

"It's  very  unpleasant  to  have  those  doubt.-!, 
I  hate  suspecting  any  one,  especially  my  own  ser- 
lants.  \Vhy  should  they  rob  me  ?  They  have 
Ivery  thing  they  want." 

"  BleS'i  you,  colonel !  as  if  that  made  any  dif- 
lireDcc.  Of  course,  they  have  every  thing  they 
Jaat;  and  it's  generally  those  who  are  closest  to 
I  who  play  us  the  dirtiest  tricks.  A  man  would 
^'t  through  life  easy  enough  if  it  weren't  for  his 
I'ionJs.  That's  a  handsome  watch  bis  lordship 
avo  to  that  brat  of  Cray's  (I  hope  your  lady  isn't 
^ithin  car-shot),  isn't  it  now  ?  " 

"  It  must  have  cost  fifty  pounds  if  it  cost  five. 
I  cau't  imagine  any  one  being  so  simple  as  to 
art  nith  his  property  in  that  lavish  manner, 
laekett ! " 

"Xorl — if  he  don't  know  to  whom  he's  part- 
|ig  with  it.    But  Lord  Muiraven  knows,  as  sure 
i  my  name's  Rebecca.     lie's  not  such  a  fool  as 
:  looks." 

"You  are  so  mysterious,  Quekett,  with  your 
lints  and  innuendoes,"  replies  her  master,  peev- 
Jlily.  "  Why  can't  you  speak  out,  if  you  have 
ny  thing  to  say  ?  " 

"  Would  you  be  any  the  better  pleased  if  I 
Jcre  to  speak  out  ?  " 

"  Muiravon'a  private  aflTiirs  cannot  affect  me 
|iuch,  either  one  way  or  the  other." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  colonel.  You  wouldn't 
lare  to  keep  the  child  hanging  about  here  if  you 
pought  it  was  his,  I  reckon." 

"  Of  course  not ;  but  what  proofs  have  you 
ht  it  belongs  to  him  ? " 


"  Well,  he's  stamped  his  si'.'naliire  prcliy 
jilainly  on  the  boy's  l.iee.  .Ml  thf  woild  eaii  ^te 
that ;  and,  whether  the  ehild  is  his  own  or  not, 
Ik's  safe  to  get  the  credit  of  him." 

"■A  very  uncertain  proof,  (^lU'ki  tt.  I  slio'ild 
have  tlioiight  you  had  had  too  mueh  exiierieiiee 
to  accept  it.  Now,  look  at  the  matter  Hi'n.>il)ly. 
Is  it  likely  Lord  .Miiiniviii  could  have  been  to 
I'liestley  and  com  ted  Mvia  Cray  without  our 
hearing  of  it  V  " 

"Myra  Cray  has  not  alwuvs  liv.d  at  I'riotb'y, 
colonel.  Hut,  putting  that  a-ide,  how  eaii  we  bo 
sure  that  the  child  did  belong  to  Cray  V  " 

"  Hut — I  have  always  understood  .~o,"  exclaiiiH 
Colonel  Mordaunt,  as  he  pushes  his  eliair  away 
from  the  table  and  confronts  the  house  keejier 

"Ay,  perhaps  you  have;  but  that's  no  pi  oof, 
either.  Mrs.  Cray  always  said  the  boy  was  a 
nurse-child  of  hers  ;  and  it  was  not  until  3I>  ras 
death  that  Mrs.  Mordaunt  told  you  she  was  his 
mother." 

"Mrs.  Mordaunt  repeateil  what  the  il\iiig 
woman  confided  to  her." 

"  Terlmps  so,"  remarks  Mrs.  Quekctt,  dryly  ; 
"  but  the  fact  remains,  colonel.  And  your  lady 
took  so  kindly  to  the  child  from  the  very  first, 
that  I  olways  suspected  she  knew  more  of  his 
history  than  we  did." 

"Do  you  mean  to  insinuate  that  my  wife  took 
this  boy  under  her  protection,  knowing  him  to  be 
a  son  of  Lord  Xluiravcn  ?  '' 

"  I  don't  wish  to  insinuate — I  mean  to  say  I  be- 
lieve it ;  and,  if  you'll  take  the  trouble  to  put  two 
and  two  together,  colonel,  you'll  believe  it  too." 

"  Good  God !  it  is  impossible.  I  tell  you 
Mrs.  Mordaunt  never  saw  Lord  Muiraven  till  she 
met  him  nt  the  Glottonbury  ball." 

"  I  think  there  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere, 
colonel ;  for  they've  been  seen  together  at  Lady 
Baldwin's  parties  more  than  once ;  I  had  it  from 
her  own  lips." 

"  I  canU  understand  it.  I  am  sure  Irene  told 
me  she  did  not  know  him." 

"  Some  things  are  best  kept  to  ourselves, 
colonel.  Perhaps  your  lady  did  it  to  save  you. 
But  if  they'd  never  met  before,  they  got  very  in- 
timate with  one  another  while  he  was  here." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"In  arranging  plans  for  the  child's  future, 
and  so  forth.  I  heard  Mrs.  Mordaunt  tell  his 
lordship  this  very  morning,  just  as  ho  was  going 
away,  that  she  should  write  to  Lim  concerning  it. 
And  his  giving  the  child  that  watch  looks  very 
much,  to  my  mind,  as  though  he  took  a  special  in- 
terest in  him."  .  --j:-^  , 


i 


■.M 


I 


I  If 


» ,,i 


120 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


i 


; 


Colonel  Monliuiut  frowns  and  turns  away  f  om 
her. 

"  I  cannot  hrliovc  it ;  imd,  If  it's  ti-iu>,  I  w'.-ili  to 
(lod  you  had  never  told  nic,  (iuelictt !  (i )  on 
with  tlic  ui'counts  ! — Wliero  Ia  the  hakci-'n  nii'iii- 
oranduni  Cor  (lour  ?  Didn't  I  order  it  to  he  Hent 
in  every  week  t  " 

"  Tlicro  it  i,'*,  eoloiicl,  riglit  on  the  top  of  the 
other?.  One  would  tliink  you  had  lost  your 
head." 

"  Lo-it  tny  head  :  and  Isn't  it  enou'_'h  to  make 

a  man  lose  hin  he.id  to  hear  all  the  sean<lal  you 

retail  to  me  ?    Do  you  want  to  iiinko  nio  believe 

hat  there  is  a  secret  underHtanding  between  my 

wife  and  Muiraven  concerning  tliat  child  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  helicvo  any  further  than 
you  can  see  for  yourself.  If  you  like  to  be  blind, 
be  blind !    It's  no  matter  of  mine." 

"  la  it  likely,"  continues  the  colonel,  shooting 
beyond  the  mark  in  his  anxiety  to  ascertain  the 
truth,  "  that  had  she  been  preaequainteJ  with 
that  man,  and  preferred  his  company  to  mine,  she 
woidd  have  been  so  distant  in  her  manner  toward 
him  and  so  low-spirited  during  his  visit  here  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  can't  say,  colonel ;  women  are 
riddles  to  me,  os  to  most.  Perhops  your  lady 
didn't  care  to  have  his  lordship  located  here  for 
fear  of  something  coming  out.  Anyway,  she 
seems  light-hearted  enough  now  he's  gone, "  as 
the  sound  of  Irene's  voice  comes  gayly  through 
the  open  casement. 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  Quekctt,"  says 
the  colonel,  loyally,  though  he  wipes  the  perspira- 
tion off  his  brow  as  he  speaks  ;  "  you  arc  hatch- 
ing  up  lies  for  some  infernal  purpose  of  your  own. 
This  is  no  business  of  yours,  and  I'll  listen  to  no 
more  of  it.  Go  back  to  your  own  room,  and 
leave  me  to  settle  my  fl'"?ounts  by  myself." 

"  Thank  you,  colonel !  Those  arc  rather  hard 
words  to  use  to  an  old  friend  who  has  served  you 
and  yours  faithfully  for  the  lost  thirty  years ; 
and  you  can  hardly  suppose  I  shall  stand  them 
quietly,  I  may  have  means  of  revenging  myself, 
and  I  may  not,  but  no  one  offended  me  yet  with- 
out repenting  of  it,  and  you  should  know  that  as 
well  as  most.  I  wish  you  a  very  good-night, 
colonel." 

"  Stop,  Quekctt.  If  I  have  been  hasty,  you 
must  forgive  me.  Think  how  wretched  the  doubt 
you  have  instilled  in  my  breast  will  make  me.  I 
love  my  wife  better  than  myself.  I  would  lay 
down  my  life  to  preserve  her  integrity.  And  the 
idea  that  she  may  have  deceived  me  is  utter  mis- 
•ly.  I  shall  brood  over  it  until  it  eats  my  heart 
away.    I  would  rather  know  the  worst  at  once." 


Wliilo  he  U  npeaking,  the  hoiisckeci  er  I; 
drawn  a  torn  slieet  of  pa|<('r  from  the  hfitlKii 
she  carries  on  her  ami,  and  is  sniootliinj.'  it  ir, 
fully  between  her  ])alrns. 

"Well,    colonel,    you    had    belter   luinw  i 
worst,"  she  replies,  as  'he  lays  tlic  paper  on  ;, 
desk   before  him ;  "  you  will  believe  your  (tj 
eyes,  perhajis,  if  you  won't  believe  me ;  nnj 
may  live  to  be  soriy  for  the  words  you've  s|i(.li,  J 
Hut   you   shall  he  deceived  no  hmger,  if  I  ,: 
help  it." 

"Quekett!  what  is  tliis  ?  " 

"  Head  ii,  and  jud^e  for  yourself!     It  (,,i;, 
down-stairs   in   your  lady's  waste-paper  ba.'i,.; 
whicli  she  oin't  half  so  carefid  of  as  she  nculi 
be.    And  when  you  h.'»vc  read  it,  you'll  iini' 
stand,  perhaps,  why  I've  taken  upon  in_vfi',f 
speak  as  I  have  done." 

lie  glances  at  the  first  few  eharacters,  and  ta:;| 
as  white  as  a  sheet. 

"  Leave  me,  Quekelt,"  he  utters  in  a 
voice. 

"  Keep  up,  colonel,"  she  says,  cncourafiin;;! 
as  she  retreats.  "  There's  as  good  RAi  in  i.j 
sea,  remember,  as  ever  came  out  of  it." 

But  his  only  answer  is  to  thrust  her  qui.] 
from  the  door  and  turn  the  key  upon  her  exit, 

The  air  is  full  of  all  the  sweet  scents  ,r  i 
sounds   of  early  summer.     A   humble  -  bco,  i;j 
tractcd  by  the  honeysuckle   th.it  clusters  roe, 
the   window  -  frame,   is   singing  a   drowsy  51' 
among  its  blossoms ;  the  cows  in  the  meadow  b 
yond  the  lawn,  restored  to  their  calves  after  1 
evening  milking,  are  lowing  with  maternal  satiJ 
faction ;    the    nestlings,  making,  beneath  tlifJ 
mother's  guidance,  the  first  trial  of  their  lii'l 
grown  wings,  are  chirping  plaintively  among  i'.| 
lilttc-bushes  ;  and  above  all  is  hoard  Irene's  I'lut 
ful  voice  as  she  chases  Tommy  round  and  rotij 
the  garden  flower-beds. 

Every  thing  seems  happy  and  at  peace,  aslJ 
sits  down  to  scan  the  words  which  arc  destir-j 
to  blot  all  peace  and  happiness  from  his  life  fi 
evermore.  He  glances  rapidly  at  the  familiar  nrl 
ing,  reads  it  once — twice — three  times,  and  tlia| 
falls  forward  on  the  study-table  with  a  groar, 


PIIE  COLOXKL'S  DISTREfJf?. 


1.17 


(lie  lioiiBC-kin'i  cr  I,. 
from  tlio  liatlur I ; 
U  Hiiiootliln){  it  CI, 


w  cliaraolerg,  nniltcrj 


'  he  litter!)  in  ii  lairl 


CHAPTER  XI. 

TiiK  «oriii  wliicli  have  Htnuk  liim  to  liu' 
^rouml  oro  tiienj : 

•  My  dear 
i),i^  (It'i'liiod  mo 
Lhicli  Ims  given  mo 

II  U  very  puinl'ul  to 
Jolt  l)el'orc  J  oil,  but  I 

I'oii  liiivo  talscn  a  f,'reat 

illcd  Tommy  Urown,  ami 
Iji^covcr  who  Is  his  fatlicr 
■o  If't  him  know  of  the  boy's 
►  ill  you  say  If  I  tell  jou 

,'  Is  pur  own  child.     Do  not 
Limlcmncd  you  without  proof 
Lit  possoasion,  contain  your 
\u  mother— your  photof,'rapli 
liiiir  hair  so  tliat  I  cannot  be 
jikon.    I  love  the  dear  child  as 
lo  \i  my  own,  and  It  would  break 

III  part  with  him  so  you  may 

I  costj  mo  to  make  this  known 
liiico  he  belongs  to  you  I  feel 
liriitto  him.     In  the  old  days  I " 

.\aJ  here  the  letter,  which  is  but  a  fragment 
If  one  of  the  many  epistles  which  Irene  com- 
menced to  Lord  Mulraven,  and  then,  in  her  un- 
Mtainty,  tore  up  again,  comes  to  an  abrupt  con- 
lliision. 

Il  lies  upon  the  desk  before  him,  but  he  has 
lot  tlic  courage  to  lift  his  eyes  an'',  look  at  it 
Igain,  nor  is  there  need,  for  cveiy  word  is  litlio- 
Iraphed  upon  his  brain  in  characters  that  noth- 
pg  in  this  life  will  have  the  power  to  efface. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  has  received  his  death-blow. 

And  80  the  wretched  man  lies  where  ho  has 
kllen,  across  his  study-table,  and,  regardless  of 
no  sweet  sights  and  sounds  with  which  the  sum- 
pcr  evening  has  cnviromd  him,  suflTers  himself  to 

led  forth  by  that  relentless  guide,  Suspicion, 
hto  the  dark  mysterious  past,  and  loses  hope  at 
Very  footstep  of  the  way. 

It  is  true,  then — he  has  been  fighting  the  good 
Ight  of  faith  in  her  innocence  and  purity  in  vain. 
|iickctt  Is  right,  and  he  Is  wrong.  His  wife  J 
ord  Mulraven  have  not  only  met  before,  but 
Nre  is  a  secret  understanding  between  them 
Jelativo  to  her  adopted  child.  And  wliy  has  not 
|«  also  been  admitted  to  her  confidence  ? 

He  tries  to  remember  all  the  incidents  that 
bok  place  at  the  time  of  Myra  Cray's  death  and 
h  boy's  admission  to  Fen  Court ;  and  he  cannot 


sati«fy  hi-*  own  mind  that  Innc  ilid  not  intvn- 
tiiinally  di'ccivi'  him.  Ilmv  a^'t()ni.■^ll('ll  was  every 
one  who  knew  her  at  the  unusiml  iiitcrcHt  chc 
took  in  that  child's  wclfurc — how  ilistri'Hscd  hIu' 
waK  at  the  idea  of  not  being  ullowi  il  to  HUi'i'or 
him — how  she  has  dung  to  and  indulged  and 
petted  him  ever  since  ho  has  been  in  her  posses- 
sloii  I  What  other  poor  ehildi-eii  ha-t  Irene  bern 
thus  partial  tot  What  anxiety  does  she  now 
evince  at  the  fate  of  many  other  little  ones  left  in 
the  same  prcdieainent  ?  She  knew  the  boy  bo- 
lonsed  to  Lord  Mulraven  nil  tlie  wiiile ;  and  yet 
she  declared  nt  the  time  of  the  (ilott<)nl)iiry  ball 
that  hIic  had  never  met  him  ! 

(iod  !  is  it  possible  that  this  creature,  whom 
he  has  almost  worshiped  for  her  saintdlke  purity 
and  truth,  can  be  n  mass  of  deceit — a  whited 
sepnlehre — fair  to  the  view  without,  but  inside 
nothing  but  rottenness  and  dead  men's  bones  ? 

IIo  writhea  upon  his  seat  as  the  Idea  occurs 
to  him.  And  yet  upon  its  impulse  his  thoughts 
go  hurrying  madly  back  into  the  past,  tripping 
each  other  up  upon  the  way ;  but  collecting,  as 
they  go,  a  mass  of  cvidcneo  that  appalls  him. 
What ! — what  in  Heaven's  name  was  It  that  her 
mother  said  so  long  ago  in  Urussels,  about  Irene's 
having  had  a  disappoircuRiit  which  compelled 
her  to  bring  her  abroad — about  sorao  seoundrel 
who  deceived  her,  and  had  broken  down  her 
health  ? 

What  Bcounilrel  ?  What  disappointment  V 
IIow  much  or  how  little  do  women  mean  when 
they  use  such  ambiguous  terms  as  those  ?  And 
then  Irene  herself — did  she  not  condrm  her 
mother's  statement,  and  refuse  altogether  to 
marry  him  until—  Ah !  what  was  the  reason 
that  made  her  change  her  mind  so  suddenly  at 
the  last  ?  Is  this  another  devil  sprung  up  to 
torture  him  ?  Yet  .ihe  seemed  happy  enough 
after  he  brought  her  home,  until  the  child  came 
here.  Was  the  child  always  here  ?  Was  it  in 
Priestley  when  Irene  came,  or  did  it  follow  her  ? 
Poor  Colonel  Mordaunt's  head  is  becoming  so 
confused  that  he  can  think  of  nothing  collected- 
ly ;  but  all  the  events  of  his  married  life  are  being 
shaken  up  together  like  the  pieces  of  colored 
glass  In  a  kaleidoscope,  and  working  inextricable 
confusion  in  his  seething  brain. 

But  he  is  sure  of  nothing.  His  wife  told  him 
Lord  Mulraven  was  a  stranger  to  her,  and  yet  she 
writes  him  private  letters  concerning  this  child 
of  his  and  Myra  Cray's.  But  did  the  boy  belong 
to  Myra  Cray?  Quekett  has  discovered  the  truth 
in  one  instance ;  may  she  not  have  done  so  in  the 
other?    He  raises  his  head  slowly  and  sorrow- 


mi 


ISI 


"NO  INTIINTIONS." 


r  ■  I 


I 


i 


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r 


■' 


$ 


M\y,  aiiil,  ilra\«iii($  u  lnn^  lututli,  rcudH  lliroiiKli 

till)  frugllU'llllUy  «lUl(•.^.<  to  Ill'llc'rl  lIl'Cl'plloll  OIICO 

n)(uiii, 

IIi'iivi-iih!  Iiiitr  (hu  t'uiiit  color  (Icsii'trt  li'iM 
fhi'ik,  iiinl  lii.s  i-yi'!t  livcl  tlicin-ti'lvi.'.'t  uiioii  lliu 
liiMt  lint!  but  four,  wlicru  tliu  wordit,  "  lie  ii*  my 
own,"  htiiiiil  out  with  fatal  |)i'ii<|ileuit}'  iind  want 
of  iiii'uiiiii;;,  except  to  liU  dialeiiiiiereil  v'.tion  I 
lie  lia;<  reail  tliu  letter  over  neveral  linieH  aireaily, 
but  Ills  Hl;^lit  ami  utiilerstandliiK  were  l)Iuri'ed  the 
wliilu  with  uii  iiiidcliiicd  dread  of  what  it  iiii^iit 
reveal  to  him ;  nml  hu  vnia  unablu  to  do  moro 
than  read  it.  Hut  now  it  HeeiiiM  a»  tliou}{h  the 
Bcales  had  ail  at  onec  falleu  from  hiii  eyes,  and 
hu  8uea  men,  not  "  ad  trees  walking;,"  but  in  their 
own  naked  and  nd-^nhaiien  humanity,  lie  seex, 
or  think;4  he  sees  it,  and  tlncA  tottering;  from  Wa 
chair  with  twenty  years  pdded  to  hid  life,  to  hide 
with  trembling  handd  the  fatal  witnc!<ii  to  hit)  w  ife'd 
degradation  in  tlie  deepcuit  drawer  of  hiii  private 
cseritoire.  lie  feels  assured  that  hu  is  not  niis- 
takcn.  lie  believes  now  as  completely  in  her 
guilt  as  lie  onco  did  in  her  innocence  ;  but  for  tlie 
Bake  of  the  love,  however  feigned,  she  has  I'liown 
him,  and  tho  duty  she  has  faithfully  performed, 
no  cyp,  besides  his  own,  shall  henceforward  rest 
npon  these  proofs  of  Ler  indiscretion.  Ttie  shock 
onco  over,  racniories  of  Irene's  goodness  and 
patience  and  affection  for  himself  come  crowding 
in  upon  his  mind,  until,  between  grief  ond  grati- 
tude, it  is  reduced  to  a  state  of  the  most  maudlin 
pathos. 

"  Poor  child !  poor,  unhappy,  misguided  eliild," 
ho  thinks  at  one  moment,  *'  without  a  friend  to 
guide  her  actions,  and  her  own  mother  her  ac- 
complice in  deceit ;  what  else  could  one  expect 
from  her  than  that  she  should  eagerly  embrace 
the  first  opportunity  that  presented  itself  for  es- 
cape from  the  da-  ;er3  with  which  error  had  sur- 
rounded her?  But  to  deceiv  me,  who  would 
have  laid  down  my  life  to  rede  'u  her ;  to  accept 
the  most  valuable  gift  my  heart  was  capable  of 
offering — the  pent-up  affection  of  a  lifetime,  only 
to  squander  and  cast  it  on  one  side  I  And  yet — 
God  bless  her — she  never  did  so.  She  has  been 
tender  and  considerate  in  all  her  dealings  with  me, 
and  would  have  warded  off  this  terrible  discovery, 
even  at  tho  expense  of  incurring  my  displeasure. 
Why  else  should  she  have  shown  such  remarkable 
distaste  to  the  idea  of  that  man's  being  located 
here  ? 

"  Yet,"  his  evil  genius  whispers  to  him,  "  her 
objcotions  may  have  been  prompted  only  by  the 
instinct  which  dictates  self-preservation.  This 
letter  proves  how  easily  it  comes  to  her  to  ad- 


drcHH  him  In  term«  of  famlllurlty.    And  the  cii:; 
too!" 

"(ioodCod!  It  I  think  of  it  any  loiign, ; 
kIuiII  go  nmd.     What  tan  I  doy     What  cun ; 
hiiy  ?     Miail  I  go  strul^lit  to  her  w  ilh  thiii  h  tl<  r  J 
my  hand,  and  uecuse  her  of  u  ei  iiiie — too  luitn; 
to  think  ol' in  comieetiiin  wiili  tiiy  vij't — iii)i|,.| 
her  look  of  tenor  and  dismay— to  bo  l'ollo«,, 
peiliaps,  by  a  bolil  denial — more  hUi,  iiionj  p, 
upon  her  poor  young  head — or  by  avoHuJ  i.^ 
separation — and  for  the  rest  of  my  davH— ,., 
tilde,  and  hers — disgrace,  witii  his  oflhpiiii); 
her  boHoni?     Oh!  no!   no  I — Iho  happiiioj  ,1 
my  life  is  ended— but  tho  deed  is  done.    \o  A 
cusatlon,  no  reproach  can  mend  it — it  must  !«,| 
main  as  it  is,  now — forever;  ami  I — Heaven  ]■ 
my   weaknes.-i — but   I   cannot   live  wiiliout  !, 
0  Irene !   Irene ! "   in  a  rush  of  uiieoniiucia! 
tenderness,  "  my  darling,  my  treasure  ;  woiil4  ■ 
(iod  that  tho  joy  of  possessing  you  had  killed  :, 
before  I  had  learned  that  you  never  were  ii,i:; 
Hut  you  are  mine — you  bIiuU  bo  mine — no  n 
sliall  take  you  from  me  !  I — I — "  and  lieie  I'lil 
Mordaunt's  reflections  culminate  in  a  burtt  i:i 
bitter  tears  that  shake  his  manhood  to  the  co:<| 
and  a  resolution  that,  however  much  he  may .'.: 
fer,  Irene's  shameful  secret  shall  be  locked  fi\i.\ 
in  the  recesses  of  his  own  breast. 

lie  will  prevent  her  ever  meeting  Lord  Ml 
avcn  again.  lie  may  in  time,  perhaps,  effect  .1 
severance  between  her  and  the  child,  but  slie  sLil 
never  hear  from  his  lips  that  he  has  arriveil  i[ 
a  know  ledge  of  the  truth  she  has  sinned  so  die;! 
ly  to  conceal  from  him. 

This  is  tho  most  impolitic  resolution  niiiul 
Colonel  Mordaunt  could  register.    It  is  iiln:i;: 
impolitic  for  friends  who  have  a  grudge  ng;iit:j 
each  other  to  preserve  silence  on  the  subject,  bl 
stead  of  frankly  stating  their  grievance  und  t\ 
fording  an  opportunity  for  redress ;  and  imfti.- 
ey  between  husband  and  wife,  is  little  short « 
tnadness.    Ilad  Colonel  Mordaunt,  nt  this  juDtJ 
uro  gone  to  Irene  and  overwhelmed  her  with  i\ 
reproaches  which  he  naturally  feels,  ho  wo^l 
havo  received  in  answer  a  full  and  free  confessiv:! 
which  would  have  set  his  mind  at  rest  forevr 
But  he  has  not  suQlcient  faith  in  her  to  do  i\ 
He  hag  too  humblo  an  opinion  of  himself  and  li:| 
powers  of  attraction,  and  is  too  ready  to  belit!:! 
his  incapacity  to  win  a  woman's  love,  to  think  ii 
possible  that  he  could  ever  hold  his  own  agaii-<| 
such  a  man  as  Muiraven,  or  even  bo  able  to  elac[ 
sympathy  in  his  disappointment.    So,  in  his  pri'!| 
and  misery,  he  resolves  that  he  will  suffer  in ; 
lencc ;  and  the  unnatural  constraint  which  he  il 


A   HAD  CIIAN(iR. 


120 


irliy.    Ami  tlu>  il, 

(if  It  any  liiii)f(i 
I  iloY     What  lun ;! 

IllT  >«llli  lhi<4  lltlu  . 
•X  I'tilllO loo  luillii 

Itli  Kiy  w'l/t— ami  .. 
may — to  bo  lollodt. 
iiiuro  hIii,  iiiorv  (.-ii 
— or  by  ikvowttl  i.i. 
rtt  of  my  days— t., 
vith  his  offsiiiiiii^  ; 

I — tllO  Imppluoi  r 
,Cil  Irt  tloill'.  Xil  . 
int'Illl    it — it   UUbt  ;.| 

;  uiul  I — Ili'iivin  li 
lot  livo  without '.. 
m\\  of  uiicoiKiui'ial 
y  ti'cuiiiii'o ;  woiilil ! 
ing  you  hud  kilkil :. 
I'ou  never  wcro  n.i:. 
mil  bo  mine — no  k 
-I— "  und  hcie  ri; 
iiiniiti!  in  a  burst  • 
manhood  to  tho  cv.' 
ver  much  he  may  *. 
,  Bhall  be  locked  wi. 
breast. 

r  meeting  Lord  JlO 
imc,  perhaps,  elTic!  .1 
;he  child,  but  she  eli.  [ 
at  he  has  arrived  i| 
lie  has  sinned  so  d«; 

litic  resolution  ^^liiJ 
■cgister.     It  is  nln;i; 
lave  a  grudge  ngait;] 
ICC  on  the  fiubjcct,  a 
icir  grievanco  ami  j:| 
redress;  and  imi»'' 
fe,  is  little  short  (i 
daunt,  at  this  jum; 
helmed  her  with  i- 
irally  feels,  he  wo- 
ull  and  free  confissi : 
mind  at  rest  forcTf 
lith  in  her  to  do  s 
ion  of  himself  and  h 
too  ready  to  bolit': 
nan's  love,  to  think  i 
hold  his  own  agaisj 
even  be  able  to  dac 
ncnt.    So,  inhisprii 
,t  he  will  suffer  in  => 
onatralnt  which  he  a 


tliii<  I'urui'd  to  put  upon  hlnixi'lf,  eatn  llki'  u  can- 

L.r  into  hi*  loving,  honeiit  luul,  and  kiilit  It.     The 

Lliun;(>'  !'*  u"'  ""  "'  ""^'''  appik>'>'»t ;  but,  from  the 

huiir  C'lliiiicl  Murdaiiht  Ictvci  liij  Mtudy  on    that 

ll'itul  I'Vi'iiiiiKi  li*>  I'*  uniitlier  man  fnini  n  li.it  hi' hiiH 

I,,.,.)).     Ireuf,  imioeil,  \»  miieli  iistoiiisliiMl,  wlieii, 

):i  liii|iiiring  later,  why  her  husband   iloei   not 

liiiii  hur  lu  the  drawing-room,  shi)  hearit   that, 

wlilioiita  word  of  wainiiig,  he  liai  retireil  to  rent ; 

111  iiiuri)  HO,  wlicn,  on  Hi'i'king  hJH    lnilMicio   tn 

,ii.itr  if  he  Is  ill,  c,r  if  hIiu  cun  do  any  tiling  lor 

liiia,  uliu  ri'ceivt'.'i  no  sort  of  explanation  of  liiit 

iiiMiul  (.'oiiduct,  and  thu  very  shortrst  unswiTS 

iilii'ri'xpressloMS  of  Hurpiisi>  and  Hyiii|iatliy.    Itut, 

il'ior  tlx'  Hist  brii'f  feeling  of  vexation,   Am  does 

,it  iliiiik  muuli  more  about  it ;  for  I'iiilip's  temper 

14  not  always  boi'u  e'piablu  of  liite,  and  Iionu  is 

jjianing  to  take  Into  consideration  (In;  fact  that 

icr  husband  is  much  older  than  herself,  and  can- 

')t  bo  expected  to  bo  always  ready  to  enter  into 

111'  splr't  of  her  younger  moods  niul  fancies  ;  .>io, 

itii  a  lit;lu  High,  she  goes  down-stairs  again,  and, 

II  tho  absorbing  interest  of  planning  and  cutting 

lilt  master  Tommy's  llrst  suit  of  knickerbockers, 

\ii  goon  forgiUtcn  all  about  it.     In  a  few  weeks, 

iiwovcr,  the  alteration  in  her  husband's  demean- 

Irij  palpalilo  enough,  and  accompanied  by  such 

vUiblo  falling-oir  in  outward  appearance,  that 

'DC  at  llrst  ascribes  it  entirely  to  want  of  health. 

I'iie  caimot  nuagino  that  she  has  done  any  thing 

olToDdhim;  and  so  entreats  hiin  pathetically 

;^ce  a  doctor.     Diit  Colonel  Mordaunt  is  mighty 

Ojtinato  whenever    the  suliject   is   mentioned, 

lid  curtly  informs  his  wife  that  she  knows  noth- 

i;'at  all  about  it,  and  bids  hi'r  hold  lii'r  tongue, 

1,  he  has  an  api)etito,  and  strangely  variable 

ilritj.    Irene  sees  his  health  is  failing,  and  some- 

103,  from  his  un:i;'eoiint.ible  manner  towanl  her- 

ilf|Sho  almost  fears  his  br.iin  must  be  ulTected. 

he  becomes  thoroughly  alarmed,  and  pAiys  for 

Ic  presence  of  Oliver  Ualston  at  Fen  Court,  that 

10  may  have  an  opportunity  of  confiding  her 

i.^pieions  to  hiin,  and  asking  his  advice  about 

lem.    Out  Oliver  is  working  valiantly  at  his  pro- 

Isiion,  as  assistant  to  a  surgeon  in  a  country  vil- 

ke  miles  away  from  Leicestershire ;  and,  thanks 

his  own  poverty  and  Mrs.  Quckett's  continued 

liiuonco  over  his  uncle,  there  is  little  chance  of 

|s  visiting  the  Court  again  for   some  time   to 

MHO.    So  Irene  is  reduced   to   confide   in  Isa- 

(lla ;  but,  though  Miss  Mordaunt  sees  the  change, 

fe  dares  not  acknowledge  it. 

"Oh  dear,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  is  it  really  so? 
^ell,  perhaps — ^but  yet  I  should  hardly  like  to 
ly— and  is  it  wise  to  notice  it? — the  toothache 


Is  a  ili^iri'Htini;  complaint,  you  know — no !  I 
never  hi'urd  that  riiilip  hud  lliu  toolhuehu;  but 
Hiill,  I  think  it  Ko  inueh  betlir  lo  have  theia 
things  ii>  lilt  lid  ilo'iiisi'lvei*." 

So  thecpiing  and  suiiiiner  days  drug  liiein- 
Helves  away,  and  ireiu'  finds  herself  thrust  farther 
and  farthei'  fiumlier  husbaiid'M  eonlldeiu'eand  uf- 
fiCtidli,  and  growing  almost  uceiiHtoiiied  to  ils  be- 
ing HO.  His  hive  Inr  her  at  this  time  is  hliowii  by 
strange  lits  and  starts.  .Sometimes  he  hardly 
opens  his  lips  for  d.iys  togetlit  r,  either  at  mealy 
or  when  they  are  alone  ;  at  others  bo  will  lavish 
on  her  pa.<siiinatu  caresses  that  burn  at  tli(>  uio- 
iiieiil,  but  seem  to  leave  no  warmth  behind  them. 
Hut  one  thing  she  sees  always.  However  little 
her  husliand  cared  for  her  adopted  eliild  in  tho 
olden  days,  ho  never  notices  liiia  now,  except  it 
be  to  order  him  out  of  the  way  in  the  same  lone 
of  voice  that  he  would  use  to  a  dog.  For  this 
reason  Irene  attributed  his  altered  mood  in  a 
great  measure  to  tho  cflect  of  jealousy  (which 
she  has  heard  some  men  exhibit  to  thu  verge  of 
Insanity),  and,  with  her  usual  tact,  keep.-;  Tommy 
as  much  out  of  his  sight  as  possible.  She  insti- 
tutes a  day  nursery  somewhere  at  the  top  of  thu 
house,  and  a  playground  where  the  boy  can  nei- 
ther be  seen  nor  heard ;  and  lets  him  take  his 
meals  and  walks  with  I'lia'tie,  and  visits  hiiu  al- 
most by  stealth,  and  as  if  she  were  committing 
some  evil  by  the  act.  It  Is  a  saeriliee  on  her 
part,  but,  although  she  faithfully  adheres  to  it,  it 
docs  not  bring  the  satisfaction  which  she  hoped 
foi  ;  it  makes  no  diirercnce  in  the  distance  which 
is  kept  up  between  her  husband's  heart  and  hers. 

She  follows  Colonel  Mordaunt's  form  about 
the  rooms  with  wistful,  anxious  eyes  that  implore 
hiin  to  break  down  the  barriers  between  them, 
and  be  once  more  what  he  used  to  be;  but  the 
appeal  is  made  in  vain.  Her  health,  too,  then 
commences  to  give  way.  There  is  no  such  foe  to 
bloom  and  beauty  as  a  hopeless  longing  for  sym- 
pathy which  is  nnatteniled  to;  and  Irene  grows 
p.ilu  and  thin,  and  miserable-looking.  At  last  she 
feels  that  she  can  bear  the  solitude  and  the  sus- 
pense no  longer.  June,  July,  and  August,  have 
passed  away  in  weary  expectation  of  relief.  Muir- 
avcn  is  in  India,  Oliver  at  Lcamouth.  She  looks 
around  her,  and  can  find  no  friend  to  whom  she 
can  tell  her  distress.  One  night  she  has  gone  to 
bed  in  more  than  usually  bad  spirits,  and  laid 
awake  thinking  of  the  sad  change  that  has  come 
over  her  married  life,  and  crying  quietly  as  she 
speculates  upon  tho  cause.  She  heard  Isabella 
stealing  up-stairs,  as  though  at  every  step  ahe 
were  asking  pardon  of  the  ground  for  presuming 


in 


11 

I 


// 


130 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


41 


to  trcaU  (ipoii  it ;  and  Mrs.  Quekett  (of  whom  the 
poor  child  can  scarcely  think  witiiout  a  shudder 
so  truly  docs  she  in  some  occult  manner  connect 
her  present  unhnppiuess  with  the  house-keeper'a 
malignant  influence)  clumping  ponderov  dy,  as  if 
the  world  itself  were  honored  by  her  patronage  > 
and  the  maids  seeking  the  upper  stories,  and  jok- 
ing about  the  mcn-scrvanta  as  they  go ;  and  then 
all  is  silent  and  profoundly  still,  and  the  stable- 
clock  strikes  the  hour  of  midnight,  and  yet  her 
husband  does  not  join  her,  Irene  knows  where 
he  is ;  she  can  picture  to  herself— sitting  all  alone 
in  his  study,  poring  over  his  accounts,  and  stop- 
ping every  other  minute  to  pass  his  hand  wearily 
across  his  brow  and  heave  a  deep  sigh  that  seems 
to  tear  his  very  heartstrings.  Why  is  it  so? 
Why  has  she  let  this  all  go  on  so  long  ?  Why 
should  she  let  it  last  one  moment  longer  ?  If  she 
has  done  wrong  she  will  ask  his  forgiveness-;  if  he 
has  heard  tales  against  her,  she  will  explain  them 
all  away.  There  is  nothing  stands  between  tliem 
except  her  pride,  and  she  will  sacrifice  it  for  his 
sake — for  the  sake  of  her  dear  old  husband,  who 
has  always  been  so  kind  to  her  until  this  mis- 
erable,  mysterious  cloud  rose  up  between  them. 
Irene  is  a  creature  of  impulse,  and  ro  sooner  has 
hor  good  angel  thus  spoken  to  hor  than  she  is  out 
of  bed,  and  has  thrown  a  wrapper  round  her 
figure  and  slipped  her  naked  feet  into  a  pair  of 
shoes.  She  Avill  not  even  stay  to  light  a  candle, 
for  something  tells  her  that,  if  she  deliberates,  the 
time  for  explanation  will  have  passed  away — per- 
haps forever;  but  quickly  leaves  her  bedroom 
and  gropes  her  way  down  the  staircase  to  the 
door  of  her  husband's  room.  A  faint  streak  of 
light  is  visible  through  the  key-hole,  but  all  with- 
in is  silent  as  the  grave  ;  and  as  Irene  grasps  the 
handle  she  can  hear  nothing  but  the  throbbing  of 
her  own  impatient  heart. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  ia  sitting,  as  she  imagined, 
in  his  study-chair,  not  occupied  with  his  accounts, 
but  leaning  back,  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  his 
hands  folded  before  him  listlessly,  inanimately, 
miserable.  He  used  to  be  an  unusually  hale  and 
young-looking  man  of  his  age.  Irene  thought, 
upon  their  first  introduction,  that  he  was  the 
finest  specimen  of  an  old  gentleman  she  had  even 
seen;  but  all  that  is  passed  now.  Life  and 
energy  eeera  as  completely  to  have  departed 
from  the  shrunken  figure  and  nerveless  hand  as 
the  appearance  of  youth  has  f.om  the  wrinkled 
face.  It  is  about  the  middle  of  September,  and 
the  next  day  is  the  opening  of  the  cub-hunting 
eeaion — an  anniversary  which  has  been  generally 


kept  with  many  honors  at  Fen  Couit.    Colond 
Mordaunt,  who  before  his  marriage  held  no  in. 
tcrest  in  life  beyond  the  pleasures  of  the  field,  anj  I 
who  has  reaped  laurels  far  and  wide  in  his  capa-  [ 
city  as  master  of  the  Glottonbury  fox-hounds, 
been  in  the  habit  of  throwing  open  his  house  |.,  I 
the  public,  both  gentle  and  simple,  on  the  oceutf 
rence  of  the  first  meet  of  the  season ;  and,  al. 
though  the  lack  of  energy  which  he  has  displaytj  | 
of  late  is  a  general  theme  of  conversation  amoni' 
the  sportsmen  of  the  county,  the  hospitable  cii;. 
tom  will  not  be  broken  through  on  this  occasion.  | 
Preparations  on  a  large  scale  for  the  festivitt 
have  been  arranged  and  carried  out,  without  the  I 
slightest  reference  to  Irene,  between  himself  ail 
Mrs.  Quekett ;     and   to-morrow   morning  cverr  I 
room  on  the  lower  floor  of  the  Court  will  be  laii  I 
with  breakfast  for  the  benefit  of  the   numeroiii 
gentlemen  and  their  tenant-farmers  who  will  con- 1 
gregate  on  Colonel  Mordaunt's  lawn  to  celcbrait 
the   recommeneeraent  of  their   favorite  amv-tl 
ment.    At  other  times  how  excited  and  intercsu-il 
has  been  the  master  of  fox-hounds  about  ever 
thing  connected  with  the  reception  of  his  gucBtil 
To  night  he  has  permitted  the  house-keeper  tofil 
to  bed  without  making  a  single  inquiry  as  v,\ 
whether  she  is  prepared  to  meet  the  heavy  do  I 
mauds  which  will  be  made  upon  her  with  tli[ 
morning  light ;  and  though,  as  a  matter  of  dun. 
he  has  visited  the  kennel,  it  has  been  done  wit;! 
such  an  air  of  languor  as  to  call  forth  the  remarJ 
from  the  whipper-in  that  he  "  shouldn't  be  in  M 
least  surprised  if  the  colonel  was  breaking  ufl 
and  this  was  the  last  season  they  would  ever  liiit;| 
together." 

And  then  the  poor,  heart-broken  man  crcpl 
back,  like  a  wouiided  animal,  to  hide  hiniselfiJ 
the  privacy  of  his  own  room,  where  he  now  siiJ 
alone  and  miserable,  brooding  over  what  has  \ik:\ 
and  what  may  be,  and  longing  for  the  time  whenl 
all  shall  be  over  with  him,  and  his  sorrows  hiddetf 
in  the  secret-keeping  {^.ave.  He  is  so  absorbed  i:| 
his  own  thoughts  that  he  does  not  hear  the  souril 
of  Irene's  light  footsteps,  though  she  blundersl 
against  several  articles  in  the  dark  hall  befciil 
she  reaches  him ;  and  the  first  thing  which  a;» 
prises  him  of  any  one's  approach  is  her  unccrtai 
handling  of  the  door. 

"Who  is  there?"  he  demands  sharply ;fe| 
he  suspects  it  may  be  Mrs.  Quekett  come  i(| 
torture  him  afresh  with  new  tales  and  doubi;| 
against  Irene's  character. 

The  only  answer  he  receives  ia  conveyed  b;  I 
another  hasty  rattle  at  the  handle  of  the  doot| 
and  then  it  is  thrown  open,  and  his  wife,  clad  i 


CRUEL  DOUBTS  DISPELLED. 


131 


irst  thing  -wliicli  a;. 
)ach  is  her  unccrta':! 


•ivea  is  conveyed  b; 
handle  of  the  door. 
and  his  wife,  clad  a 


a  long  white  dressing-gown,  with  her  fair  hair 
streaming  down  her  buck,  appears  \ipon  tlie 
threshold. 

lie  shudders  at  the  siglit,  and  dr.nvs  a  little 
backward  ;  but  ho  does  not  speak  to  her. 

"  Philip !  Philip  ! "  she  exclaims,  impatiently, 
and  trembling  lest  all  her  courage  should  evapo- 
rate before  she  has  had  time  for  explanation, 
"don't  look  like  that.  Speak  to  me.  Tell  mc  what 
I  have  done  wrong,  and  I  will  ask  your  forgive- 
ness for  it." 

He  does  not  speak  to  her  even  then ;  but  ho 
turns  his  weary,  grief-laden  face  toward  her  with 
■■ilont  reproach  that  cuts  her  to  the  heart,  and 
brings  her  sobbing  to  his  feet. 

"What  have  I  said?  What  have  I  done?" 
she  questions  through  her  tears,  "  that  you  should 
behave  so  coldly  to  me  ?  0  Philip,  I  cannot  bear 
this  misery  any  longer !  Only  tell  mc  how  I  have 
ofTcnded  you,  and  I  will  ask  your  pardon  on  my 
knees." 

"Don't  kneel,  then,"  he  says,  in  a  dry,  husky 
oice,  as  he  tries  to  edge  away  from  contact  with 
her,  "  I  have  not  blamed  you.  I  have  kept  si- 
lence, and  I  have  done  it  for  the  best.  By  break- 
ing it  I  shall  but  make  the  matter  worse." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  she  says,  energetically, 
'Philip,  what  is  this  matter  you  are  so  desirous 
;o  conceal  ?  If  it  is  shameful,  it  can  be  in  no  wise 
onnectcd  with  me.' 

"So  young,"  he  utters,  dreamily  ("were  you 
inetcen  or  twenty  on  your  last  birthday,  Irene  ?), 
ind  yet  so  full  of  deceit.  Child,  how  can  you 
look  at  me  and  say  such  things  ?  Do  you  wish  to 
Towd  my  heart  with  still  more  bitter  memories 
han  it  holds  at  present  ?  " 

"You  are  raving,  Philip,"  she  answers,  "or  I 
lave  been  shamefully   traduced   to   you.     Oh,  I 

sure  of  it !  Why  did  I  not  speak  before  ?  T/tat 
•Oman,  who  has  sueh  a  hold  over  you  that — " 
"  Hush,  hush ! "  he  says,  faintly ;  "  it  is  not  so. 
have  had  better  evidence  than  that;  but,  for 
od's  sake,  don't  let  us  speak  of  it !  I  have  tried 
0  shield  you,  Irene.  I  will  shield  you  still ;  but 
hile  we  live  the  matter  must  never  more  be  dis- 
ussed  between  us,  or  I  cannot  answer  for  the 
onsequences." 

"  And  do  you  think,"  she  replies,  drawing 
erself  up  proudly,  "that  I  will  live  under  your 
)rotection,  and  cat  your  bread,  and  avail  myself 
>f  all  the  privileges  which  in  the  name  of  your  wife 
iccrue  to  me,  while  there  is  a  dead  wall  of  sus- 
licion  and  unbelief  and  silence  raised  between  us, 
md  I  am  no  more  your  wife,  in  the  true  meaning 
if  the  word,  than  that  table  is  ?  You  mistake  me, 


Philip.  I  have  been  open  and  true  with  you  from 
the  beginning,  and  I  will  take  nntliing  less  at 
your  hands  now.  I  do  not  a«k  it — I  demand,  t/.s 
a  riijht,  to  be  told  what  is  the  secret  that  sepa- 
rates us  ;  and,  if  you  ref  .se  to  tell  me,  I  will  leave 
your  house,  whatever  it  may  cost  nie,  and  live 
among  strangers  sooner  than  with  so  terrible  an 
enemy." 

He  raises  his  eyes,  and  lonks  at  her  defiant 
figure  with  the  utmost  compassion. 

"Poor  child!  you  think  to  biave  it  out,  do 
you?  But  where  would  you  go?  What  door 
would  open  to  receive  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  so  friendless  as  you  seem  to  think," 
she  answers,  growing  angry  under  his  continued 
pity.  "There  are  some  who  love  me  still  and 
believe  in  me,  and  would  refuse  to  listen  to  accu- 
sations w'.iich  they  are  ashamed  to  repeat." 

"  Would  you  go  to  him  ?  "  he  cries,  suddenly, 
as  a  sharp  pang  pierces  his  heart. 

As  this  insulting  question  strikes  her  ear, 
Irene  might  stand  for  a  model  of  outraged  woman- 
hood— so  tall  and  stately  and  indignant  does  she 
appear. 

"  To  whom  do  you  presume  (o  cdludv  ?  " 

Colonel  Mordaunt  shrinks  before  her  angry 
eyes.  There  is  something  'n  them  and  in  her 
voice  which  commands  him  to  reply,  and  ho  rises 
from  his  seat,  and  goes  toward  the  escritoire. 

"  I  would  have  saved  yoi.  from  tliis,"  he  says, 
mournfully.  "  I  wished  to  save  you,  but  it  has 
been  in  vain.  0  Irene,  I  have  borne  it  for  more 
than  three  months  by  myself!  Pity  and  forgive 
me  that  I  could  not  bear  it  better.  I  would  rath- 
er it  had  killed  me  tlian  it  had  come  to  this." 

lie  takes  out  the  torn  and  crumpled  sheet  of 
note-paper  that  he  has  so  often  wept  over  in  secret, 
and  lays  it  on  the  desk  before  her. 

"  Don't  speak,"  he  continues  ;  "  don't  try  to 
e'^.euso  yourself;  it  would  be  useless,  for  you  sec 
that  I  know  nil.  Only  remember  that  I — I — 
have  forgiven  you,  Irene — and  wish  still  to  watch 
over  and  protect  you." 

She  takes  the  scribbled  fragment  in  her 
hand  and  reads  it,  and  colors  painfully  in  the 
perusal.     Then  she  says  shortly. — 

"  Who  gave  you  this  ?  " 

"  What  signifies  who  gave  it  me  ?  You  wrote, 
and  I  have  seen  it." 

"  Very  true ;  but  what  then  ?  Was  it  a  crime  to 
write  it  ?  " 

Colonel  Mordaunt  regards  his  wife  as  though 
she  had  been  demented. 

"  Was  it  a  crime  to  write  it?''^  he  repeats. 
"It  IS  not  the  letter — it  is  of  what  it  speaks. 


i 

' '  5 

(••ill 


m 


132 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


Ii]l 


H'l 


'*! 


'Alii 


Surely — surely  you  cannot  bo  so  hardened  as  not 
to  look  upon  that  In  the  light  of  a  crime  ?  " 

"  I  know  it  to  be  a  crime,  Pliilip,  and  a  very 
grievous  one  ;  but  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  nic 
— except,  perhaps,  that  I  should  have  told  you 
wlien  I  found  that  it  was  his." 

"  When  you  found  what  was  his  ?  Irene !  you 
iiro  torturing  me.  You  told  me  at  the  Glotton- 
I)iny  ball  that  you  had  never  met  this  man 
Mniravcn,  with  whom  I  find  you  correspond  in 
tori'is  of  familiarity.  What  is  the  secret  between 
you  ?  In  God's  name  speak  out  now,  and  tell  me 
the  worst  1  Death  would  be  preferable  to  the 
agony  of  suspense  that  I  am  sulfering," 

"  There  is  no  secret  between  us.  I  never  told 
Lord  Muiraven  of  what  I  now  see  I  should  have 
informed  you— that  I  found  out  from  Myra  Cray's 
papers  that  he  is  the  father  of  her  child." 

"  The  child,  then,  is  Myra  Cray's  ?  "  he  says, 
with  hungry  eyes  that  starve  for  her  reply. 

"  Tl'Viose  do  you  suppose  it  is  ?  "  she  demands, 
with  an  angry  stamp  of  her  foot.  Her  figure  is 
shaking  with  excitement;  she  Las  struck  he; 
clinched  hand  upon  her  heart.  Beneath  her 
blazing  looks  he  seems  to  shrink  and  shrivel  into 
nothing. 

"  Forgive  !  oh  !  forgive  me,  Irene,"  he  mur- 
murs, OS  he  sinks  down  into  liis  chair  again,  and 
covers  his  Aice  from  view.  "But  look  at  the 
paper — read  what  it  says,  and  judge  what  I  must 
have  thought  of  it." 

She  seizes  the  letter  again,  and,  running  her 
eye  rapidly  up  and  down  its  characters,  gives 
vent  to  a  sort  of  groan.  But  suddenly  her  face 
lights  up  with  renewed  energy. 

"  Stop  !  "  she  says,  comniandinglj",  as  she 
se'ies  one  of  the  candles  off  the  table  and  leaves 
the  room.  In  a  few  minutes — minutes  which 
seem  like  ages  to  him — she  is  back  again,  with 
the  corresponding  fragment  of  Inr  mutilated 
letter  (which,  it  may  be  remembered,  she  thrust 
into  her  davenport)  in  her  hand.  She  does  not 
deign  to  offer  any  further  explanation,  but  places 
thera  side  by  side  upon  the  desk  before  him,  and 
stands  there,  silent  and  offended,  until  ho  shall 
see  how  grossly  he  has  wronged  her.  He  reads 
the  unfinished  epistle  in  its  entirety  now. 

"  Mt  dear  Lord  Muiraven  : 

"  What  you  said  this  evening  has  decided  me 
to  write  to  you  on  iv  subject  which  has  given  me 
much  anxiety  of  late.  It  is  very  painful  to  me  to 
have  to  allude  to  it  before  you  ;  but  I  believe  it 
to  be  my  duty.  You  have  taken  a  great  interest 
in  the  child  called  Tommy  Brown,  and  you  say 


that,  should  I  discover  who  is  his  father,  I  !.boiuJ 
be  bound  to  let  him  know  of  the  boy's  cxislunu, 
"  What  will  you  say  if  I  tell  you  that  I  (iimlv 
believe  Ac  is  your  own  child?  Do  you  think  1 
have  condemned  you  without  proof.  The  papw;  I 
in  my  possession  contain  yojr  letters  to  Mjrj 
Cray,  his  mother — your  photograph,  and  a  loik 
of  your  hair — so  that  I  cannot  believe  that  I  an. 
mistaken.  I  love  the  dear  child  as  my  own ;  !:.. 
deed,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  he  is  niy  own 
and  it  would  break  my  heart  now  to  part  will,  I 
him ;  so  that  you  may  think  how  much  it  co^u 
me  to  make  this  known  to  you.  But,  since  heW. 
longs  to  you,  I  feel  you  have  the  better  right  i„ 
him.     In  the  old  days  I  told—" 

lie  arrives  at  the  fiuisli,  where  Irene's  mi!;; 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  could  write  soni... 
thing  better,  and  induced  her  to  break  oircil 
tear  her  letter  into  the  halves  that  lie,  side  by  siJt,  | 
before  him  now.    He  has  read  it  all,  and  sees  t!.i 
groundlessness   of  the   suspicinu  he  has  cnlc- 
tained  against  her  fair  faiiic,  aii.;  \.-  v'.ady  to  tlul 
into  the  earth  with  shame,  to  tLiiiK  he  liasljKl 
base  enough  to  suspect  her  at  all.     And  he  daiiJ 
not  speak  to  her,  even  to  entreat  her  pardon,  kil 
lets  the  paper  slip  from  beneath  his  trembling  £:■ 
gers,  and  sits  there,  humiliated  even  to  the  du.-i, 

"  When  I  told  you  that  I  had  never  met  Lori  I 
Muiraven  before,"  rings  out  through  the  aivL 
stillness  Irene's  clear,  cold  voice,  "I  said  wliatl 
believed  to  be  the  truth.     I  had  met  Eric  Kiiii 
but  I  did  not  know  at  that  time  that  he  had  fc| 
herited  his  brother's  title.    When  I  saw  him : 
the  ball,  and  learned  my  mistake,  I  tried  all  I  coiil 
to  dissuade  you  from  asking  him  to  Fen  Court. 
did  not  wish  to  see  or  meet  him  again.     But  wki| 
he  came,  and  I  saw  him  and  Myra's  child  topf'.';  ■ 
and  heard  his  opinion  on  the  subject,  I  tho  .1 
would  be  but  just  to  let  him  know  I  had  i   - 
cred  that  he  was  Tommy's  father ;  anu  1  •, 
more  than  one  letter  to  him,  but  destroyed  tiivi  j 
all.    How  that  fragment  came  into  your  poj:c| 
sion  I  do  not  know  ;  but  of  one  thing  I  am  ci:r 
tain,"  continues  Irene,  with  disdain,  "  that  I  LkI 
never  deceived  you  wittingly ;  and  that  when  1 
kept  back  the  knowledge  I  had  gained  respcciii.l 
the  child's  parentage,  it  was  more  from  a  wish  tl 
spare  your  feelings  and  my  own,  than  not  to  repoT 
confidence  in  you.    And  when  I  took  the  boy  k[ 
dcr  my  protection,  I  had  no  idea  whose  child  I'M 
was.  I  learned  it  from  some  letters  which  his  nio.:l 
or  left  behind  her,  and  which  Mrs.  Cray  bro«£i| 
to  me,  weeks  after  he  had  come  to  the  Court." 

She  finishes  her  confession,  as  she  began  :| 


IRENES   CONFEiSSIONS. 


133 


nith  an  nil'  of  lonscioiia  virtue  mixed  witli  pride; 
and  then  slie  waits  to  lieur  what  liorlmsband  may 
have  to  say  in  reply. 

Hut  all  the  answer  she  obtains  is  from  tli.- 
found  of  one  or  two  quick,  gaspiuj;  sobs.  The 
man  is  weeping. 

'  Oh,  ray  poor  love ! "  she  cries,  as  she  flies  to 

I  fold  him  in  her  arms.     "  How  you  must  have  suf- 

I  fcred  under  this  cruel  doubt !    Forgive  me  for 

licing  even  tlie  ulterior  cause  of  it.     But  how 

could  you  have  tho\ight  it  of  nie,  Philip — of  your 

poor  Irene,  who  has  never  been  otherwise  than 

1  ;rue  to  you  ?  " 

"  My  angel !  "  is  all  he  can  nuirmur,  as  thoy 
I  mingle  their  tears  and  kisses  together. 

"  Why  did  you  never  tell  nie  ?  "  continues 
I  Irene.  "  Why  did  you  keep  this  miserable  secret 
[to  yourself  for  so  many  weary  months  ?  " 

"Hum  could  I  tell  you,  my  child? — What! 
icorac  boldly  and  accuse  your  innocence  of  that 
Iwhicli  I  blush  njw  to  think  I  could  associate  with 
Ivou  oven  in  thought  ?  Irene  !  can  you  forgive  ?  " 
"yot  the  doubt — the  silence — the  want  of 
Ifaith,"  she  answers  ;  but  then,  perceiving  how  his 
Ipoor  face  falls  again,  quickly  follows  up  the  new 
Iwound  with  a  remedy.  "  Oh,  yes,  my  dearest,  I 
lean  forgive  you  all,  for  the  sake  of  the  love  that 
Iprompted  it." 

"Ihave  loved  yo\i"  ho  says,  simply;  and  she 
lansnrcrs  that  she  knows  it  well,  and  that  slic  had 
liio  right  to  place  herself  in  a  position  to  raise  his 
lin-[iiiry.  And  then  they  bury  themselves  anew 
pa  one  another's  arras,  and  peace  is  forever  ce- 
uontcd  between  them. 

"  Let  mo  tell  you  every  thing — from  the  very 
l)?!;inning,"  says  Irene,  as  she  dries  her  eyes  and 
K'ats  herself  at  her  husband's  knees. 

"  Nothing  that  will  give  you  pain,  my  darling. 
I  am  a  brute  to  have  mistrusted  you  for  a  mo- 
fciwnt.    Henceforward  you  may  do  just  as  you 

"But  I  owe  it  to  myself,  Philip,  and  to — to — 
L)iJ  Muiravcn.  With  respect,  then,  to  having 
laot  him  before — it  is  the  truth.  AV'e  knew  each 
bthcr  when  my  mother  was  alive." 

"  And  you  loved  each  other,  Irene,"  suggests 
[icr  husband,  impatient  to  be  contradicted. 

"Yes,  we  loved  each  other,"  she  answers, 
biiictly.  After  the  excitement  she  has  just  gone 
Ihrough,  even  this  avowal  has  not  the  power  to 
|isturb  her. 

Colonel  ^ordaunt  sighs  deeply. 

"  0  Philip !  do  not  sigh  like  that,  or  I  shall 
Jot  have  the  courage  to  be  frank  with  you." 

"  I.was  wrong,  Irene;  for  let  me  tell  you  that 

\  <■  - 


this  portion  of  your  stoiy  I  have  ulicady  hoard 
from  your  mother." 

"She  told  you  all?" 

"She  told  me  that  sonic  one  (whom  I  now 
conclude  to  have  been  this  man  Muiravcn)  paid 
his  addresses  to  you ;  and,  on  being  asked  what 
were  his  intentions,  veered  olT  in  the  most  scoun- 
drelly manner,  and  said  he  had  none." 

She  has  not  blushed  for  lierrxlC,  but  she 
blushes  now,  rosy  red,  fur  hii/i. 

"  Poor  mamma  was  mistaken,  Philip.  She 
thought  too  much  of  nic  and  of  my  happiness. 
Slie  could  make  no  allowances  for  him.  And  then 
it  was  partly  her  own  fault.  I  always  had  my 
own  way  with  her,  and  she  left  us  so  much  to- 
gether." 

"  You  want  to  excuse  his  conduct  ?  " 

"  In  .so  far  that  I  am  sure  he  had  no  intention 
of  injuring  me.  What  he  said  at  the  time  was 
true.  It  was  out  of  his  power  to  marry  me — or 
any  one.  Had  he  been  aide  to  adduce  his  rea- 
sons, it  would  have  saved  both  my  mother  and 
myself  much  pain ;  but  he  could  not.  He  was 
thoughtless — so  were  we.  I  exonerate  him  from 
any  greater  crime." 

"lie  lias  made  you  licliove  this  since  coming 
here,  Irene." 

"Don't  say 'made'  me  believe  l.im,  Pliilip. 
He  only  told  me  the  truth  ;  and  it  was  an  expla- 
nation he  owed  both  to  me  and  himself.  Had  I 
thought  my  listening  to  it  would  impugn  your 
honor,  I  would  not  have  done  so." 

He  squeezes  the  hand  he  holds,  and  she  goes 
on : 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  Tommy  was  his  child  un- 
til I  read  some  papers  that  Myra  Cray  had  left 
behind  her,  and  wliich  contained,  among  other 
things,  his  photograph.  The  discovery  Ehockcd 
me  greatly,  and  I  had  no  wish  tio  meet  him  after- 
ward. You  may  remember  how  earnestly  I 
begged  you  not  to  invite  him  to  stay  at  the 
Court." 

Colonel  Mordaunt  nods  his  head,  tiien  stoops 
and  kisses  her. 

"  Oil !  my  dear  husband,  how  could  you  so 
mistrust  me  ?  When  Lord  Muiravcn  came,  ho 
seemed  to  take  a  great  interest  in  Tonuny,  and 
expressed  himself  so  strongly  on  the  subject  of 
my  not  keeping  the  boy's  birth  a  secret  from  his 
father,  should  I  ever  meet  him,  that  it  induced  mo 
to  write  the  letter  you  have  before  you.  I  love  the 
child  dearly;  but  I  felt  that,  after  what  had  hap- 
pened, it  was  a  kind  of  fraud  to  keep  you  in  igno- 
rance of  his  parentage,  and  therefore  I  had  every 
intention  of  making  him  over  to  his  rightful  own- 


m 
■,f| 


m 


'  i  *i 


I 


gi'-' 


134 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


cr — and  should  have  done  bo  before  now,  only 
that  Lord  Muiravcn  is  in  India." 

"  I  wish  you  had  told  rnc  from  the  first,  Irene. 
I  can  trust  you  to  tell  nic  the  truth.  Do  you  lovo 
this  man  still  ?  " 

f^hc  grows  crimson,  but  she  docs  not  flinch. 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  in  a  low  voice.  Colonel  Mor- 
daiint  groani«,  and  turns  his  face  away. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  husband,  why  did  you  ask  me 
such  a  question  ?  I  love  Muiravcn — yes  !  It  was 
the  first  romance  of  my  life — and  mine  Is  not  a 
nature  to  forget  easily.  But  I  love  you  also. 
Have  I  not  been  a  dutiful  and  affectionate  wife  to 
you  ?  Have  I  ever  disregarded  your  wishes,  or 
shown  aversion  to  your  company?  You  have 
been  good  and  loving  to  me,  and  I  have  been 
faithful  to  you  in  thought,  word,  and  deed. 
Philip,  Philip— answer  me.  You  married  me, 
knowing  that  the  old  wound  was  unhealed  ;  you 
have  made  nic  as  happy  as  it  was  possible  for  me 
to  be.  I  hope  that  I  have  not  been  ungrateful — 
that  I  have  not  left  utterly  unrequited  your  pa- 
tience and  long-suffering." 

He  opens  his  ar.ns,  and  takes  her  into  his  em- 
brace, and  soothes  her  as  one  would  soothe  a 
weepi.ig  child. 

"  No ! — no,  my  darling !  You  have  been  all 
that  is  dearest  and  truest  and  best  to  me.  You 
aro  right.  I  knew  that  the  treasure  of  your  heart 
was  not  mine.  I  said  that  I  would  accept  the 
smallest  crumbs  of  love  you  had  to  spare  for  me 
with  gratitude ;  and  yet  I  have  been  base  enough 
to  consider  myself  wronged,  because  I  find  that  I 
do  not  possess  the  whole.  It  is  I  who  should  ask 
your  pardon,  Irene — ^^a  I  do,  my  darling — with 
my  whole  heart  I  say,  forgive  me  for  all  the  pain 
I  have  caused  you,  and  let  us  thank  God  together 
that  we  have  fallen  into  each  other's  hands.  It 
might  have  been  worse,  my  dearest,  might  it 
not  ?  " 

"  It  might  indeed,  dear  Philip ;  and  hence- 
forward, I  trust,  it  may  be  much  better  than  it  has 
been.  You  know  every  thing  now,  and  from  this 
evening  we  will  register  a  vow  never  to  keep  a 
secret  from  one  another  again.  If  you  suspect 
me  of  any  thing,  you  must  come  at  once  and  tell 
me,  and  I  will  do  the  same  to  you.  And,  to  show 
you  I  am  in  earnest,  I  will  give  up— for  your 
sake,  Philip — I  will  give  up  " — with  a  jhort  sob — 
"  Tommy  1 " 

He  does  not  refuse  to  accept  this  sacrifice  on 
her  part,  although  he  longs  to  do  so.  Manlike, 
he  decides  on  nothing  in  a  hurry. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  your  proposal, 
Irene.    It  is  best  left  for  future  consideration. 


Meanwhile  I  am  determined  on  one  point — Mij, 
Quekett  leaves  my  service  as  soon  as  ever  I  la, 
get  rid  of  her." 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  glad  ;  every  thing  will  go  ri-ii  i 
now.  It  is  she,  then,  who  brought  you  this  lettti  ;• 

"  As  she  has  brought  me  endless  talcs  and  it. 
sinuations  against  yourself,  which,  while  uiy  ti-.. 
son  and  faith  rejected,  my  memory  could  not  lidp 
retaining.  That  woman  is  mixed  up  witli  all  tU  I 
misery  of  my  youth,  and  she  would  have  poisonw 
the  happiness  of  my  later  years.  She  grudgts  [ 
me  even  to  die  in  peace." 

"  Slie  can  never  harm  us  again,"  says  Irew,  | 
soothinglj'. 

"She  has  tried  to  harm  you,  poor  (larlic .  I 
more  than  you  have  any  idea  of.  Her  hints  ac; 
repetitions,  and  shameful  innuendoes  so  worktd  I 
upon  my  evil  nature  that  they  corrupted  all  ht  I 
sense  of  justice,  and  turned  my  blood  to  gall  ft,  I 
you  remember  my  going  up  to  town  for  a  couf!t  I 
of  days  in  the  beginning  of  August,  Irene  5 " 

"Yes,  Philip." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  left  home  for  ?  " 

"I  have  not  the  least  idea.  Business,  was;; | 
not  ? " 

"  The  devil's  business,  dear.    I  went  to  eon-ul 
my  lawyer  about  drawing  up  a  new  will,  and  hi-.- 
ing  every  thing  I  possess,  away  from  you,!.| 
Oliver  Ralston." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  she  said,  a  little  startled. 

"  I  thought  to  myself,"  continues  Coloni'l  Mi.;| 
daunt,  "that  as  soon  as  ever  I  was  dead, vkI 
would  go  and  marry  Muiravcn  on  my  money,  a:;i 
install  him  here." 

"  0  Philip  I  " 

"  Don't  interrupt  me,  darling,  and  don't  cukI 
me  ;  remember  I  was  mad  with  jealousy  and  hi\ 
of  you ;  so  I  did  it.  Yes,  Irene ;  had  I  died 
fore  this  explanation  took  place  between  us,  yc:| 
would  have  been  left  (but  for  your  own  little  pc:  [ 
tion)  penniless.  My  will,  as  it  now  stands,  Icavdl 
you  nothing  but  a  dishonored  name.  Thank  Cvir 
who  has  given  me  the  opportunity  to  undo  tLJ 
great  wrong ! " 

"  /should  not  have  cursed  you,  dearest,"  s'Li| 
says,  softly. 

"But  He  would.  Yet  not  now — not  noij 
There  are  two  things  for  me  to  do  to-morro'l 
One  is  to  dismiss  Quekett,  and  the  other  to  go  i:| 
to  town  and  sec  Sclwyn  again." 

"  You  can't  go  to-morrow,  Philip ;  it  is  clj 
hunting  day." 

"  Bother  the  cub-hunting !     I  must  go ! 
sha^.l  not  rest  until  this  matter  is  put  right." 

"But  what  will  every  one  say  ?    It  will  lo; 


■II 


TUE  CUB-IIUNT. 


135 


again,"  suys  Ircut, 


ed  you,  dearest,"  i<.<\ 


so  strange.  The  first  meet  of  tlic  season,  au<J  tlic 
muster  absent !  Indeed,  dear  I'hilip,  yon  must 
put  off  your  visit  to  town ;  one  day  cannot  malce 
niutli  differenee." 

"It  may  malic  all  the  diirercncc  In  the  world, 
Irene." 

"Nonsense!"  she  says,  playfully,  for  she 
knows  it  will  be  an  imraeusc  concession  on  his 
part  to  go.  "  Now  take  my  advice  ;  wait  till  the 
(lay  after  to-morrow  to  accomplish  both  these 
clmngcs.  When  the  house  is  full  of  company  is 
not  the  time  to  choose  for  dismissing  servants  or 
altering  wills.  Let  us  spend  to-morrow  as  we  iu- 
tenJed.  You  will  be  hunting  all  day,  you  know, 
and  the  day  after  you  shall  have  your  own  way." 

"  My  sweetest !  That  I  should  have  done  you 
such  an  injury.  IIow  can  I  ever  forgive  myself? 
What  can  I  do  to  show  my  penitence  and  make 
araends  ?  I,  too,  have  a  story  to  tell  you,  Irene 
—a  confession  to  make,  that,  but  for  my  coward- 
ice, sliould  have  been  yours  from  the  very  first, 
buc  I  feared  so  greatly  to  lose  your  esteem.  The 
past  life  of  a  man  of  my  age  cannot  be  expected 
to  prove  an  unwritten  page.  Yet  I  believe  that 
even  your  purity  will  be  able  to  make  some  ex- 
cuse for  me." 

''  Do  not  tell  it  me  to-uight,  Philip  :  you  arc 
looking  overtired  as  it  is.  Come  to  bed  and 
leave  all  these  vexing  questions  alone  for  the 
present.  vV'hy,  it  is  past  one,  and  the  breakfast 
is  to  be  laid  at  seven.  Come,  dear  Philip,  you  will 
be  fit  for  nothing  without  a  good  night's  rest." 

Still  he  lingers  and  is  doubtful. 

" I  ought  to  be  as  fiank  to  yo'i  as  you  have 
been  to  me." 

"  You  shall,  at  a  more  fitting  moment,  dear- 
est. You  shall  tell  me  every  thing,  and  I  will 
pardon  you  before  I  hear  it.  But  this  is  not  the 
time ;  think  how  much  you  iiave  to  go  through 
to-morrow." 

"Irene!  I  ought  to  go  to  town  to-morrow; 
something  tells  me  so." 

"And  something  tells  lie  that  the  whole 
I  country  will  be  talking  about  it  if  you  do.  Why, 
my  dearest  Philip,  just  think  of  the  general  dis- 
may when  the  members  of  the  hunt  arrive  to  find 
you  going  or  gone  I  What  on  earth  should  I  say 
to  them  ?  They  would  declare  you  were  out  of 
I  your  mind.     Indeed,  you  mustn't  think  of  it." 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  mustn't;  but  the  first 

I  thing  on  Friday  morning  I  am  off.     Oh  I  my 

child,  how  different  the  world  looks  to  me  to 

what  it  did  an  hour  ago  !     What  a  load  you  have 

I  lifted  off  my  heart  1    And  you  love  me  a  little 

still,  don't  you  ?  ■' 


"  I  love  you  a  very  great  deal,  I'hilip ;  nor 
would  I  change  your  love  now  for  that  of  any 
man  living.  Oii,  how  wrong  it  was  of  you  to 
suspect  me,  dearest !  IIow  tliin  and  haggard  it 
has  made  you  !  I  believe  even  you  are  weaker 
than  you  were." 

"  Turned  me  into  quite  an  old  fogy  ;  hasn't  it, 
my  child?  Who  would  think,  looking  on  us 
now  for  the  first  time,  that  we  were  man  and 
wife  ?  Though  my  rose  is  not  so  blooming  as 
she  used  to  be  either ;  and  it  has  been  all  my 
fault.  Never  mind ;  we  are  happy  again  once 
more,  and  it  shall  be  my  endeavor  to  preserve 
our  peace  undisturbed.  I  t-liall  look  only  fivc- 
and-twenty  by  the  end  of  next  month,  Irene." 

"  I  Uke  you  best  as  you  are,"  she  whispers 
softly,  and,  encircled  by  each  other's  arms,  they 
wind  up  the  staircase  to  their  bedchamber, 
though  Colonel  Mordaunt  cannot  resist  leaving 
hold  of  his  wife  for  one  instant  to  shake  his  fi^t 
at  Mrs.  Quckett's  door. 

"  You  go  out  of  this  as  soon  as  ever  I  have 
time  to  kick  you,"  he  says,  defiantly  ;  "  and  never 
more  shall  you  darken  threshold  of  mine. — She 
has  an  annuity  under  my  father's  will,"  he  contin- 
ues to  Irene,  "  and  she  may  make  the  most  of  it. 
We  shall  have  one  mouth  the  less  to  feed,  and  one 
room  the  more  to  live  in  on  lier  departure,  my 
dear." 

"  And  an  incalculably  less  amount  of  mischief, 
Philip.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now,  dear,  that 
she  has  been  the  bane  "  my  married  life,  and  I 
wish  to  Heaven  I  had  never  seen  her." 

"  Amen !  But  she  has  done  her  worst,  .oy 
darling,  and  she  shall  never  harm  you  more. 
God  forgive  me  for  having  let  licr  do  so  at  all  I  " 

So  they  pass  into  their  own  room,  and  lie 
down  and  sleep  the  restful  sleep  that  comes  when 
souls  are  satisfied,  and  hearts  are  open  and  con- 
tent. 

The  next  morning  Fen  Court  is  a  scene  of  un- 
usual bustle  and  confusion.  By  the  time  Irene  is 
dressed,  the  rattling  of  knives  and  forks,  and 
the  popping  of  corks  is  over,  the  heavy  breakfast 
has  come  to  a  close,  and  the  lawn  js  covered 
with  horsemen  and  dogs,  and  the  crisp  Septem- 
ber air  is  filled  with  the  sound  of  voices,  the 
yelping  of  hounds,  and  the  restless  stamping  of 
horses,  impatient  to  be  off. 

She  does  not  leave  her  room  until  they  have 
all  ridden  away  ;  but  she  watches  the  gay  caval- 
cade through  the  open  window,  and  thinks  that  a 
meet  is  one  of  the  pretticit  sights  she  las  ever 
seen.    While  she  is  coricmplating  it,  in  rushes 


f 


186 


"NO  INTENTIONS" 


iicr  huabnnd,  arrayed  in  pink,  loolvhg  very  cx- 
citcJ,  very  happy,  and  full  of  spirits. 

"  We're  off,  my  own  darling,"  ho  snys  ;  "  one 
kiss  before  I  go,"  and  then  ho  holds  her  from 
him  and  regnrds  her  steadfastly.  "(}od  bless 
you,  my  Iiene  1  God  reward  you  for  all  your 
goodness  to  me  !    I  shall  be  back  by  seven." 

She  embraces  him  eagerly  in  return. 

"  And  I  shall  count  the  hours  till  you  come 
homo,  Philip;  though  I  hope  you  will  have  a 
very  successful  day.  What  is  that  noise,  dear  ?  " 
as  a  considerable  disturbance  is  heard  upon  the 
gravel  outside. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  looks  tliroiigh  the  window- 
blind. 

"  Only  that  bruio  of  a  horse  of  mine ;  he 
hasn't  bad  enough  exercise  lately.  What  a  mess 
he's  made  of  the  drive !  I'll  take  it  out  oi  the 
boast." 

"  He  careful,  Philip." 

"  Whit !  arc  you  going  to  coddle  me  in  my  old 
n;,'e?"  he  says,  delighted  at  her  caution.  "Yes; 
I'll  bo  careful,  darling,  and  back  with  my  little 
wife  by  seven.  God  bless  you,  once  more ! " 
and,  with  a  final  kiss,  he  toars  himself  away  and 
runs  down-stairs.  In  another  minute  ho  has 
mounted  his  rebellious  animal,  and,  in  company 
with  some  of  the  principal  members  of  the  hunt, 
taken  his  way  down  the  drive,  followed  by  the 
remainder  of  the  horsemen  and  the  dogs.  Irene's 
eyea  follow  him  as  long  as  he  is  in  sight,  and  she 
sighs  to  observe  how  loosely  his  coat  hangs  about 
him,  and  how  much  more  ho  stoops  on  horseback 
than  he  used  to  do. 

"  But,  please  God,  wo  will  remedy  all  that," 
she  thinks,  as  the  last  man  turns  out  of  the  drive- 
gates,  and  she  quits  her  post  of  observation. 
"  As  soon  as  we  have  settled  what  is  to  be  done 
about  Quokett  and  Tommy,  I  will  persuade  Philip 
to  take  a  little  change  to  the  sea-side  with  me,  or 
perh,\ps  to  run  over  to  Paris  for  a  month." 

At  the  thought  of  her  adopted  child,  and  the 
fear  that  she  may  have  to  part  with  him,  the 
tears  well  up  in  her  eyes,  but  she  brushes  them 
away. 

"I  will, not  cry  about  it  imtil  I  am  sure. 
Somehow  I  fancy,  now  Philip  knows  how  at- 
tached I  am  to  the  boy,  he  will  hit  on  some  plan 
by  which  I  may  keep  him  ;  and,  if  not — well,  I 
mu-    do  my  duty,  that's  all." 

She  will  not  let  her  thoughts  dwell  on  the 
subject,  but  orders  the  carriage  and  takes  Tommy 
and  PhcDbc  on  a  shopping  expedition  to  Glotton- 
bury,  and  has  her  luncheon  there,  and  goes  to 
call  on  several  friends.    She  is  anxious  to  keep 


away  from  the  Court  as  much  as  possible  until 
Philip  comes  back  again,  for  fear  f\\o  should  cii. 
counter  Mrs.  Quekott,  and  not  be  able  to  rt'strain 
herself  from  saying  what  che  thiiikst  conccniin: 
her.  So,  on  her  return,  she  locks  herself  up  in 
her  bedroom  with  a  book,  and  falls  fast  aslitp, 
until  her  maid  rouses  her  with  an  intimation  tlim 
it  is  past  her  usual  time  for  dressing. 

"  The  second  gong  has  gone,  ma'am,  and  tli. 
dinner's  all  ready,  and  only  waiting  for  the  colo- 
nel, to  be  sent  up." 

"  Why  didn't  you  wake  mc  before,  Phabo?" 

"  I  knocked  at  the  door  several  times,  ma'am. 
but  it  was  no  use,  you  were  that  fast. — Wbicii 
dress  will  you  please  to  wear  to-night  ?  " 

"  Oh,  any  thing  that  will  go  on  ([uickest.  Tiic 
old  black  one,  that  will  do." 

"  Black  is  so  lugubrious,  to  my  niind,"  fay; 
Phn-be,  simpering. 

"  What  nonsense !  Give  mc  a  colored  ribljun, 
if  you  like,  then.  No  ;  not  that  one,  it  is  unsiiii. 
able.  Where  is  the  crimson  sash  I  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  wearing  with  it  ?  " 

"  That's  unpicked  just  at  present,  ma'am,  i; 
wanted  turning  where  you  had  dropped  soni- 
gravy  on  it." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  then ;  let  me  go  as  I  nni," 
and  in  her  black  dress,  unrelieved  by  any  color, 
slie  descends  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  chimes  the  half- 
hour  as  she  enters. 

"  Philip   is  very  late   to-night,"  she   thiDk.-. 
»'  It's  quite  dark.     They  can't  bo  hunting  noiv 
lie  must   have  gone    home  with  some  of  liij  I 
friends." 

At  the  same  time  it  strikes  her  as  strango  | 
that,  after  their  conversation  of  the  night  before, 
and  his  unwillingness  to  leave  her  this  moraiu:. 
he  should  permit  any  thing  to  prevent  his  return- 
ing to  her  side. 

The  weather  has   become  damp  and  chill). 
and  they  ha^t  commenced  fires  in  the  evening-.  | 
She    sits  down    before  hers  now,  and  ehiver- 
slightly. 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  put  on  a  low  dress,  it  is  real- 
ly growing  cold,  and  this  house  is  draughty.   1 1 
wonder  where  Isabella  is  ? — I  haven't  seen  her  all  | 
day." 

Then  she  rings  the  bell. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Mordaunt  ?  " 

"  In  her  room,  I  believe,  ma'am." 

"  I  wish  you'd  send  word  to  her  to  come  drTvii.  I 
Say  dinner  is  ready." 

"  Is  dinner  to  be  served,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  rather  sharply,  and  wist  I 


A  FATAL  ACCIDEXT. 


13V 


as  (loftsililc  until 


o  my  nilnd,"  pay- 


a'am." 
her  to  come  dnvn.  I 


anotht'''  Bhivcr.  "  Wait  foi-  the  colonel.  Only 
tell  Miss  Morilannt  I  am  foclinj;  lonely,  nnd  wish 
that  she  would  join  mo." 

The  servant  withdraws  to  do  her  Mddin;:,  and 
(iho  still  crouches  by  the  fire,  in  her  l)liicl{  dress, 
ehivcring. 

Tlie  door  opens,  and  Mis3  Mordatmt  appears. 

"  It  is  very  late,  Isabeliii.  What  can  have 
c„:iu'  to  Philip  ?  " 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  aay,  Mrs.  Mordaunt — tliat 
is,  of  course,  Philip  is  liis  own  master — but  still, 
wliat  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  "  rather  fraetiously ;  "  it  is 
what  I  asked  you." 

Miss  Mordaunt,  rebuked,  retires  in  silence  to 
the  farther  end  of  the  drawing-room,  while  Irene 
sit^  by  the  fire  and  fears — she  knows  not  wliat. 

Eight  o'clock  strikes  —  half-past  eight  —  a 
fjuirtcr  to  nine — and  they  arc  still  alone. 

"  What  can  have  happened  ?  "  exclaims  Irene, 
jiidilenly,  as  she  springs  up  from  lier  position, 
anJ  turns  a  burning  face  toward  her  companion. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  what  can  have  ? 
I!ut  you  quite  alarm  mo.  Hadn't  we  better — but, 
iJoutitless,  you  know  best." 

"  Hush  !  "  says  Irene,  in  a  voice  of  authority, 
I  as  she  stands  upright  to  listen. 

There  is  a  noise  as  of  many  voices,  each  try- 
j  ing  to  hush  down  the  other,  in  the  hall. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Confused  voices,  some  earnest  and  some 
I  quavering,  but  all  low,  except  one,  whoso  inqni- 
iries  culminate  in  a  little  shriek  which  makes 
Irene's  blood  torn  cold  to  hear.  She  has  ad- 
jvaaced  to  the  drawing-room  door,  and  stands 
Itlicre,  grasping  the  handle  and  shuddering  with 
Ifear;  half  grieving  at  the  coming  shadow,  but  too 
Ifrightened  to  go  out  and  meet  it,  face  to  face. 
I  What  are  those  feet  which  seem  unable  to  tread 
lotherwisc  than  heavily,  yet  arc  accompanied  by 
lotJiers  stopping  upon  tiptoe,  whoso  owners  keep 
|on  whispering  caution  as  they  go? 

Why  is  the  hall  of  Fen  Court  so  full  of  strange 
hiimds  and  presences?  what  is  it  they  have 
Ibi'ought  home  so  helplessly  among  them  ?  She 
Iknows :  the  instinct  of  affection  has  told  her  the 
|tiuth,  but  she  is  not  yet  able  to  receive  it,  and 
stands  there  listening,  with  the  life-blood  frozen 
la  her  veins,  waiting  till  the  visitation  of  God 
pall  descend  upon  her  head. 

There  is  no  such  agony  in  this  world  as  sus- 


pense. WIil'U  we  know  for  certain  that  deatli  or 
treachery,  or  .'(eparation,  has  come  between  us 
and  those  wliom  we  hold  dearest,  the  pain  may 
be  acute,  but  still  tlie  worst  is  lieforc  us ;  wc  can 
measure  it  and  our  own  strength,  and  every  day 
we  find  the  diU'erenio  between  the  two  grow  less, 
until,  with  a  tl.ankt'id  heart,  we  can  acknowledge 
that,  even  though  it  embitter  the  remainder  of 
our  career,  it  is  not  unbearable. 

Hut  to  be  kept  in  suspense ;  to  bo  kept  be- 
hind the  black  veil  that  resei've,  or  cruelty,  or 
want  of  thought,  may  raise  between  us  nnd  our 
fellow-creatures ;  to  iluetuate  betweei\  hope  and 
doubt  and  despair  until  our  outraged  nifection 
sickens  nnd  dies  of  repeated  disai)pointnicnts  ; 
this  is  the  most  terrible  trial  the  lin'oan  heart  is 
capable  of  enduring,  compared  to  which  physical 
torture  in  its  worst  shape  would  appear  trilling. 
\nd  yet  nt  times  we  itifliet  it  on  each  other.  Hut 
I  think  Heaven  will  hold  the  murderer,  who 
strikes  down  his  victim  in  a  fit  of  rage,  as  inno- 
cent beside  the  man  or  woman  who,  having  gained 
supremacy  over  another  heart,  kills  it  by  inches 
with  slow,  drawn-out  suspense.  The  nature  of 
the  poisoner,  who  deals  out  death  by  infinitesimal 
grains  of  powder,  is  angelic  by  comparison. 

Irene's  deepest  feelings  are  not  here  eonccmcd, 
but  she  is  torturing  herself  cruelly  by  standing  at 
the  drawing-room  door.  She  is  in  the  condition 
of  the  criminal  conilcmnod  by  martial  law,  who, 
his  last  moment  having  arrived,  awaits  with  band- 
aged eyes  and  almost  pulseless  heart  the  volley 
that  is  to  put  him  out  of  his  misery.  At  last  she 
is  roused  by  the  sound  of  Isabella  sniflling  behind 
her  handkerchief. 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt.  I  really  feel 
quite  frightened  ;  do  you  think  it  is  possible  any 
thing  can  have  happened  ?  I  don't  want  to  alarm 
you,  of  course ;  but  still — and  Philip  not  having 
come  homo,  you  see — " 

She  can  stand  it  no  longer  then,  but  with  an 
effort  dashes  open  the  door  and  walks  out  blindly 
into  the  passage.  The  way  is  barricaded  by 
Phwbe,  who  has  evidently  been  set  to  keep  guard, 
and  whose  eyes,  red  with  crying,  and  wild  with 
fear,  are  wandering  incessantly  from  the  hall  to 
the  drawing-room,  and  the  drawing-room  to  the 
hall. 

"  Oh !  my  dear  lady,"  she  exclaims,  as  soon 
as  she  catches  sight  of  her  mistress.  "  Pray  go 
back  again ;  they  don't  want  you  there  just 
now." 

"  Where  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Tell  me  at 
once,"  says  Irene,  in  a  tone  of  authority. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing,  my  dear  lady ;  indeed,  it's 


i 


If 


1 1 

i 


:..  i 


f  ;! 


188 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


nothing ;  but  tlioj  'ro  bu!<y,  and  tUey  say  you  must 
kuop  in  tliu  (iruwing-rouni.  Ami,  oli!  wimt  am  I 
to  do  ?  "  continued  tliu  girl,  dcsimiringly,  as  liur 
mifttrcss  ndvunccs  to  her  without  the  ttlightist 
huHitiition. 

"It  ill  till!  colonvil  I  know  it.  Il'd  no  use 
your  denying  it ;  where  huvo  they  taken  hiiu  V  " 

"  Oil !  I'm  not  sure,  m.i'uin — into  llie  murning- 
room,  I  tliiniv ;  hut  do  »top  and  see  Mr^.  (jucUelt 
flr.n." 

"  Mrs.  Quoliult ! "  in  a  voice  of  tlie  supreniest 
contempt.  "Let  nic  pus.><,  riuube;  do  not  at- 
tempt to  stop  me.  I  bliould  have  been  told  of 
this  at  once." 

She  hurries  on — half  fainting  with  fear,  but  so 
majestically  grand  in  her  right  to  know  the  worst, 
that  the  servants  that  line  the  hull  make  uoeilbrt 
to  bar  her  progress,  but  draw  back,  awe-struck, 
and  look  after  her  with  their  aprons  to  their 
eyes. 

The  morning-room  seems  full  of  people,  and 
the  first  who  make  way  for  her  upon  the  threshold 
arc  the  whipper-in  and  her  own  coachman.  About 
the  table  arc  gathered  Sir  John  Cootc  and  several 
gentleman  in  hunting-costume,  with  Mrs.  Quekett 
and  a  couple  of  mcdieul  men  whom  Irene  has 
never  seen  before.  They  arc  all  bending  forward, 
but  as  the  crowd  divides  to  let  her  pass  they  turn 
nnd  start. 

"  Not  here — not  here — my  dear  lady,"  exclaims 
one  of  the  strangers,  as  he  attempts  to  intercept 
her  view.     "  Now,  let  mc  entreat  you — " 

But  she  pushes  past  him,  and  walks  up  to  the 
table. 

There  lies  her  husband,  dressed  as  when  she 
parted  with  him  on  that  morning,  but  dead — un- 
mistakably dead  1 

Slie  guessed  it  from  the  first — she  knew  what 
was  awaiting  her  when  she  left  the  drawing-room : 
she  had  no  hope  when  she  entered  this  room  ; 
yet  now  that  all  suspense  is  over,  that  she  cannot 
foil  to  see  her  suspicious  were  correct,  something 
will  flicker  up  again  before  it  is  laid  to  rest  for- 
ever, and  cause  her  trembling  lips  to  form  the 
words — 

"  Are — are  you  quite  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  my  dear  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  I  regret 
to  say.  But,  indeed,  you  ought  not  to  be  here. 
Let  mo  conduct  you  back  to  your  own  room." 

She  shakes  him  off  impatiently  (it  is  Sir  John 
Cootc  who  has  been  speaking  to  her),  and  turns 
again  to  the  doctor 

"  How  did  it  hapf  ^n  ?  " 

"  I  am  told — I  bei'cve — "  he  stammers,  "  Sir 
John  was  good  enoug.ito  inform  mc  it  was  on 


the  occasion  of  tho  colonel  taking  the  brouk  do»n 
at  Ulia|)pell's  meadows — but  all  these  Had  detuili, 
my  dear  madam,  would  be  better  kept  fnuii  ^ou 
until—" 

"  Take  him  up  to  my  room,"  she  says  next 
in  a  tone  which  sounds  more  like  weariness  tiiut 
any  thing  else. 

"  Carry  the — I  think  we  had  best  leavu  i; 
where  it  is,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,"  renionstralcg  Sir 
John. 

"  My  servants  arc  here.  I  do  not  wish  to 
trouble  any  one  else,"  she  answei-s,  quietly. 

"  But,  of  course,  if  you  wish  it — " 

"  I  do  wish  it.  I  wish  him  to  be  carried  u;. 
stairs  and  laid  upon  our — our — bed,"  hhc  suv-, 
with  a  slight  catching  in  her  voice. 

Then  half  a  dozen  pairs  of  arms  arc  place: 
tenderly  beneath  the  dead  body,  and  it  is  tuku 
up-stairs  and  laid  where  she  desired  it  to  be. 

When  the  task  is  completed,  the  besuii: 
stand  about  the  bed,  not  knowing  what  to  do  u 
say  next. 

"  I'lease  leave  me,"  says  Irene,  after  a  pau-i 
"  I  must  be  alone." 

"  But  is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  you,  lu;  | 
dear  child  ?  "  asks  Sir  John  Cootc,  losing  A^ 
for  a  moment  of  deference  in  pity. 

"  Yes ;  please  come  back  to-morrow  and  itli  I 
me  all  about  it.    And  perhaps  this  gentleniaii,'  [ 
indicating  one  of  tho  doctors,  "  w  ill  stay  here  lo. 
night,  in  case — in  case — " 

"  My  dear  lady,  there  is  no  hope  here." 

"  I  know — I  know.    It  is  because  there  ii  | 
no  hope  that  I  must  be  alone.    Good-night." 

She  waves  them  to  the  door  as  she  speak-, 
and  they  file  out  one  after  another,  and  leave  lie;  I 
with  her  dead. 

All  this  time  Mrs.  Quekett  has  not  ventured  I 
to  speak  to  her  mistress,  or  intrude  herself  upci  I 
her  notice  in  any  way.  She  is  awed  by  the  sudJ 
den  calamity  that  has  fallen  on  them,  and  per- 1 
haps — who  knows  ? — a  trifle  conscience-smittc 
for  the  mischief  which  she  brought  about,  aci  | 
will  never  now  have  the  opportunity  of  u 
pairing.  Ah  1  could  we  but  foresee  events  l>  I 
they  will  happen,  how  far  more  carefully  sliou]^  I 
wc  pick  our  way  along  the  rocky  path  of  life.  1 1 
am  not  one  who  considers  the  curtam  drawn  \»\ 
twcen  us  and  futurity  as  a  special  proof  of  provi- 
dential  care.  I  would  count  it  rather  as  one  of  tiii  I 
losses  brought  upon  ua  by  the  fall  of  Adam,  wbiclil 
rendered  most  of  the  faculties  with  which  tbil 
Ahnighty  gifted  his  first  creatures  too  gross  au J 
carnal  to  exert  their  original  prerogatives.  Then  I 
was  a  second  Adam,  of  whom  the  first  was  a  prel 


IRENE  AND   HER  DEAD   Ill'SDAND. 


130 


to  be  carried  ur- 


•(.•no,  after  a  puun 


tig\iratiuD,  who  brought  a  perfect  body  into  the 
wui  IJ,  the  capiibililie.s  of  wliieh  we  have  no  reason 
to  believe  we  flhould  not  also  have  enjoyed  hud 
ours,  like  hi.'),  remained  as  sinles.<i  us  they  were 
ireutod.  Many  people,  from  sheer  cowurdiee, 
i^liriulc  from  hearing  what  is  in  store  fur  tliem, 
au<l  excuse  themselves  upon  tiie  plea  that  they 
have  no  right  to  know  what  the  Creuter  has  nier- 
cilully  !''"'•  Tliey  miglit  just  as  well  argue  tliey 
liad  no  right  to  use  a  niieroscopo  to  aid  their  sin- 
bound  eyes  to  discover  that  which  tlie  first  man 
nould  probably  havo  Been  without  any  artilicial 
help,  li'it  our  deeds  for  the  moat  part  will  not 
bear  the  light,  and  therein  lies  our  dread  of  an  un- 
known future.  Wo  feor  to  trace  the  advance  of 
tlie  Nemesis  wo  feel  the  past  deserves. 

Mrs.  Quekett  does  not  addrc.-<8  Irene — their 
eyes  even  do  not  meet  in  tlio  presence  of  the 
dead  man  whoso  life  has  been  so  much  mixed  up 
with  both  of  theirs,  and  yet  the  house-keeper  in- 
tuitively feeU  that  her  mistress  knows  or  guesses 
the  part  she  has  taken  in  her  luto  misery,  and  is 
tQO  politic  to  invite  notice  which  in  the  first  bit- 
teriicss  of  Irene's  trouble  might  be  most  unpleas- 
antly accorded.  Besidca,  Mrs.  Quckett  believes 
ttiat  the  game  is  in  her  own  hands,  and  that  she 
can  afford  to  wait.  So  Irene  remains  unmolested 
by  the  houac-keepcr'a  sympathy  or  advice,  and  a 
loud  burst  of  hysterics  as  soon  as  Isabella  is  put 
in  possession  of  tho  truth  is  tho  only  disturb- 
ance that  reaches  her  privacy  during  the  hour 
that  she  remains  by  herself,  trying  to  realize  the 
fact  that  she  is  once  more  left  alone.  As  the 
friends  who  bore  bis  body  up  the  stairs  walk  gen- 
tly down  again,  as  though  tho  sound  of  their  foot- 
Btcps  could  arouso  tho  unconscious  figuro  they 
have  left  behind  them,  she  turns  tho  key  in  the 
door,  and  advancing  to  the  bedside,  falls  up- 
on her  knees  and  takes  the  cold  hand  in  her 
own. 

"  Philip  1 "  she  whispers  softly—"  Thilip ! " 

But  tho  dead  face  remains  as  it  was  laid,  stiff 
and  quiescent  on  the  pillow,  and  tho  dead  eyelids 
neither  quiver  nor  unfold  themselves.  They  are 
aloQc  now,  husband  and  wife,  who  have  been  so 
close  and  so  familiar,  and  yet  he  docs  not  answer 
ber.  The  utter  absence  of  response  or  recognition, 
although  she  knows  that  he  is  dead,  seems  to  make 
her  realize  for  the  first  time  that  he  is  gone. 

"  Philip,"  she  repeats,  half  fearfully,  "  it  is  I 
— it  is  Irene." 

"  Oh,  my  God ! "  she  cries,  suddenly,  to  her- 
self; "  how  full  of  life  and  hope  he  was  this 
morning ! " 

That  recollection — the  vision  of  her  husband 


us  she  saw  him  lust,  ills  beaming  face,  his  cheer- 
ful voice,  hi.-*  promise  to  be  back  williher  by  sev- 
en, all  crowd  upon  her  heart  uud  make  it  natural 
again. 

She  be^in.s  to  wci'i). 

First  it  is  only  a  tear,  which  .xhe  drives  back 
with  the  worn-out  platitude  that  he  is  happy, 
and  so  she  must  not  grieve ;  then  her  lip  (juivcrs 
uud  she  holds  it  fast  between  her  teeth  and  tries 
to  think  of  paradise,  and  tliat  it  is  she  alone  who 
will  have  to  sullcr  :  but  here  steps  in  liie  remem- 
brance of  how  he  used  to  sympathize  in  all  her 
troubles,  ond  pity  for  herself  brings  down  the 
tears  like  rain. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  love  !  I  shall  never  hear  you 
speak  again.  I  shall  never  see  your  eyes  light 
up  when  I  appear.  It  is  all  over.  It  is  all  genu 
forever;  and  we  had  so  much  to  make  up  to  one 
another ! " 

At  this  she  cries  for  every  thing — for  her  huB- 
band — for  herself — for  their  separation  and  her 
future  ;  and  in  half  an  hour  rises  from  her  knees, 
wearied  with  weeping,  but  with  a  Jircast  already 
easier  from  indulgence. 

Hut  she  does  not  hang  about  the  corpse  again, 
Irene's  notions  with  respect  to  the  change  Avhich 
wo  call  Death  preclude  her  clinging  with  any  thing 
like  superstition  to  the  cast-off  clothing  of  a  lil> 
crated  spirit.  She  knows  it  is  not  her  husband 
that  is  there,  nor  ever  has  been ;  and  .'■ho  will  cry 
as  much  to-morrow  at  the  sight  of  the  'ast  suit 
he  wore,  as  she  has  done  over  his  rcmam:),  and 
for  the  same  reason,  because  it  reminds  her  of 
wliat  was,  and  still  is,  though  not  for  her.  All 
her  sorrow  lies  in  tho  fact  that  tho  communica^ 
tion  which  she  loved  is,  for  a  while,  concluded. 

When  her  grief  is  somewhat  abated,  she  ring.'i 
the  bell  for  Phabe.  The  girl  answers  it  timidly, 
and,  on  being  bidden  to  enter,  stands  shivering 
just  within  the  threshold  of  the  room,  with  cyea 
well  averted  from  the  bed. 

"Phoebe,"  said  her  mistress,  wcaricdly,  "I 
want  you  to  tell  me — to  advise  me — what  ought  I 
to  do  about  this  ?  " 

"  Oh,  bless  you,  ma'am,  I  don't  even  like  to 
think.     Hadn't  we  better  send  for  Mrs.  Quckett  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  Phoebe !  Don't  mention  Mrs. 
Quekett's  name  to  me  again.  This  is  not  her 
business,  and  I  have  no  intention  of  permitting 
her  to  enter  the  room." 

"  She  seems  to  expect  as  she's  to  have  the 
ordering  of  every  thing,"  says  Phoebe,  as  she 
blinks  away  a  tear. 

"  She  is  mistaken,  then,"  replies  Irene.  Tho 
allusion  to  Mrs.  Quckett  has  strengthened  her. 


%\ 


i  'i 


A\ 


y 


-i 


140 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


Bii'«' 


She  lm«  no  liiclinatiiiii  to   117  now.     Her  tycn 
Bixirklo,  fiii'l  Ikt  liri'ii.-'t  licavfs. 

"  lit  tlmt  gi.iitk'iniui — llio  doctor— horc  .-till  1  " 
kIio  in(|uii'C!<. 

"  YoM,  iiia'iiiii.  Mr.  FcIIowh,  Iim  imna'  i?. 
Wu'vo  jiiit  liiiii  ill  tilt'  liliic-Hooiii." 

"  Aslt  iiliii  to  foine  liciv." 

Tlie  yoiini,'  111:111 — a  Hiirircon  from  a  iwi^'lilxir- 
iiig  viliiigo — i^ooii  lll!llil'^^  hi.-i  niiiifiHiiiu'c,  uihI  to 
Ills  hiind.s  Irene  eonfidos  the  tlinrgo  of  every  tiling 
oonni't'ted  wiili  tlio  last  ofllecs  to  bo  performed 
for  her  Iiusiiand,  wliicli  Mr.  FellowH,  bting  niiali 
iinprc.M.ied  witii  her  beauty  and  Iier  grief,  under- 
talvi'S  without  any  he.sita(i<in,  and  promi.-ieH  to  act 
for  lier  until  the  arrival  of  Oliver  Kal.-itoii  t<liall  ^■et 
liim  at  liberty  nf,'aiii.  Upon  which  sho  rises  mid 
bow:i  to  hiin,  niil,  without  another  glance  toward 
(/bit  which  bears  so  small  rcseniblaiico  to  the  gal- 
lant, line  old  man  who  promised  but  last  night  to 
grow  young  again  for  her  sake,  leaves  the  room, 
and  creeps  away  to  the  side  of  Tommy's  cot,  and 
remains  there  till  the  morning,  rocking  licrself 
l)aekw!ird  n.'d  forward,  and  wondering  why  Cod 
fihould  have  especially  selected  lierLielf  to  .-ulVer 
such  repeated  .separation?. 

"  First  my  dear  father,  and  then  mother,  and 
now  Philip !  Tlioy  all  weary  of  me — they  will  not 
wait  until  I  can  accompany  them.  They  nrc  too 
anxious  to  get  free — they  forget  I  shall  bo  left 
elono. — 0  Tommy,  my  darling,  s^tay  with  me ! 
Don't  you  go  too.  And  yet.  Heaven  only  knows 
how  long  I  shall  be  permitted  to  keep  you  either.' 

She  makes  herself  miserable  with  such 
thoughts  until  the  day  breaks.  Uow  strange  to 
sec  it  dawn,  and  remember,  with  a  start,  that  for 
him  time  is  no  more !  Shu  rises  chilled  and  stitf 
from  her  position  with  the  daylight,  and  performs 
the  duties  of  dressing  mechanically ;  yet  she  will 
not  quit  the  nursery,  but  sits  there  hour  after 
hour  with  her  hands  crossed  upon  her  lap,  listen- 
ing to  Tommy's  broken  phraseology,  or  issuing 
necessary  orders  in  a  languid,  careless  voice  from 
which  all  hope  seems  to  have  evaporated.  In  the 
course  of  the  afternoon  Sir  John  Coote  asks  to  see 
her,  and  she  hears  for  certain  what  rumor  from 
the  servants'  hall  has  already  acquainted  her  with. 

"  Always  a  determined  fellow  with  dogs  and 
horses,  poor,  dear  Mordaunt,"  says  her  visitor,  in 
the  cour.se  of  explanation.  "  I  have  heard  that 
his  intimate  friends  might  twist  him  round  their 
little  fingers,  but  that's  neither  here  nor  there ; 
he  would  never  let  an  animal  get  the  better  of 
Lira. — Well,  that  d — d  brute  of  his — excuse  my 
vehemence,  Mrs.  Mordaunt,  but  I  can't  speak  of 
it  with  any  thing  like  calmness — was  in  a  temper 


from  the  first  of  the  mornitig.  Mordaunt  liml  ■„ 
deuce  iif  a  trouble  to  keep  hiiii  Htraigiit  at  all,  mimI. 
after  two  rir  three  hard  (iglil.x  betwein  tlieiii,  i(,t 
animal's  blood  wa.s  fairly  up,  and  he  begun  t. 
>>how  vice.  It  hapiiened  at  the  wiile  Jiiinp  |a 
('happeH'H  farm  in  Slotway.  The  brook's  ver, 
much  swollen,  and  wo  mostly  went  round, — '  1 1] 
take  It  out  of  my  brute,'  siys  poor  Mordiuim 
and  put  him  at  it  like  bla/e.^.  The  animal  refu.^i.l 
the  water  twice,  then  took  it  with  a  rush— fdj 
short  of  the  opposite  bank,  rolled  over,  and  tlmv 
was  an  end  of  ii.  And  I  wish  to  God,  my  dtar 
child,  I  had  to  tell  the  story  to  anyone  but  you," 

"  Did  he  cpcak  ?  AVho  saw  him  first  ?  "  A.v 
asks,  with  white,  trembling  lips. 

"  Not  a  word ;  it  must  have  been  the  work  (jf 
ft  second — dislocation  of  the  sfdnal  vertebriP,  yii: 
know.  I  was  ne.\t  behind  him,  and  ofV  my  lior- 
in  a  moment,  but  it  was  no  use.  I  saw  that  (]:■ 
rectly.  We  shall  never  have  such  a  master  (,f 
the  hounds  again,  Mis.  Mordaunt.  It's  the  fui!. 
dcst  thing  that's  ever  happened  to  me  since  1  lod'' 
to  my  first  meet." 

"Thank  you  fur  telling  me.  I  would  ratkr 
know  all.     And  you  are  suiv  ho  did  not  suflVr*" 

"  Quite  sure.  You  should  ask  Fellows,  he  Ic. 
longs  to  Stotwiiy,  and  was  on  the  spot  in  five  miii- 
utcs ;  but  it  might  as  well  have  bei  n  an  hour  for  all 
the  good  he  could  do.  And  then  we  carried  hira  to 
a  farm-house  close  by,  and  I  sent  on  Colville  to 
break  the  news  to  you  ;  but  the  fool  couldn't  go 
through  with  it,  and  slunk  home  half-way,  leaving 
us  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  his  °  roceedings ;  else  yon 
may  be  sure  we  would  never  have  startled  you  in 
the  manner  we  did  by  bringing  tho  poor  fellow 
straight  home  without  any  previous  warning." 

"Never  mind;  it  was  just  as  well,  perhaps ; 
nothing  could  have  softened  it,"  she  says,  quietly. 

"  You  bear  it  like  a — like  a — like  a  Trojan,'' 
exclaims  Sir  John,  unable  to  find  any  term  more 
suited  to  the  occasion  by  which  to  express  his  aJ 
miration. 

"I  am obllffed to  bear  it,"  replies  Irene;  "bi:i 
it  was  very  sudden,  and  I  don't  think  I  can  talk 
ony  more  about  it  to-day,  please,"  upon  which  her 
visitor  tokes  the  hint,  and  leaves  her  to  herself. 

The  next  day  brings  Oliver  Ralston,  full  of 
concern  and  interest  for  Irene,  as  usual,  and  a!.-o 
not  a  little  grieved  at  the  loss  they  have  twv\- 
ally  sustained. 

"  He  was  always  so  good  to  me,"  he  say.-,  as 
soon  as  the  first  ice  is  broken,  and  Irene  has  in 
part  confided  to  him  the  last  interview  she  hail 
with  her  husband,  "  particularly  when  that  oU 
brute  Quckett  was  out  of  the  way." 


OMVEIl  RALSTONS   VISIT. 


in 


"Olivorl  protiiiHi'  iin'  lliat  I  .••li.ill  mvor  Hfc 
lliiit  woniaii  to  npi-iik  to  u>;uin.  I  fVi'l  lut  (IioiikIi 
It  would  Iti'  impoi<Hil)li;  to  inc — in  tliini;^li  I  I'oiilJ 
not  tru.tt  iiivrtfll'  to  liciir  lior  wliiiiiii|.(  overlay  lius- 
li.iml'ii  iIiMtli,  or  odiTiiif;  iiif  her  liypdriiiii'iil  ron- 
ildlcncTH,  uitlioiit  Hiiyiii;^  I'XiK'lly  wliat  I  think  and 
liiimv  (if  licr." 

"  My  dear  Irt-np,  why  n.*k  iiic  y  Simly  it  will 
111!  iiiyotir  own  powur  to  ik-i'idr  what  Id  to  bfooiiic 
111'  tiiu  whole  L'stiilili.'-htiiL'nt,  uiid  Mothur  (^ickctt 
into  the  biir).'uiii." 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Olivfr,"  :<lio  !<uy*,  with  a 
flight  shiver.  "I  know  iiothin);  lor  CLMtaiii ;  but 
I  suppoio  it  will  bo  in  my  |)OWcr  to  .sutlle  wIutc 
Isimll  live,  and  I  fcul  that  that  woman  an  1  my- 
iii'lf  can  never  continue  under  the  sumo  roof." 

"  Where  should  you  live  but  here  ?  You 
would  not  abandon  the  poor  old  Court  ?  Ilut  per- 
li:ip«  you  would  llnd  it  lonely  all  by  yomseU'." 

"Don't  let  us  talk  of  it  until  we  hear  what  ar- 
r;ingciiieiils  riiilii)  may  have  made  for  me,  Oliver, 
I  .■^liall  be  content  to  abide  by  his  decision.  Hut 
lie  told  me,  the  iii};ht  before  lie  died,  that  he  bad 
laii'ly  altered  bis  will." 

"Xot  in  old  Quekctt's  favor,  I  tru.st.     Irene, 

ill)  Tou  think  we  shall  find  out  the  truth  about 

that  woman  now  ?     Will   the  secret  coneernin;^ 

I  hor  (for  I  am  sure  there  is  one)  bo  brou<,'ht  to 

light  with  my  uncle's  will  ?  " 

'•  I  have  never  seen  it,  Oliver  ;  you  must  not 

I  iisk  me.    for  my  own  part,  tbo  only  feeling  I  have 

upon  the  subject  ia,  that  I  may  be  rid  of  the  slight 

of  her.    She  hu.s  done  her  bent  to  poison  the  hap- 

I  pinesa  of  my  married  life,  and  turn  my  dear,  no- 

lilc  husband's  licort  af^ainst  me  ;  and,  if  I  live  to 

I  be  a  hundred,  I  could  never  for<;ive  her  for  it.    It 

was  sheer  malice,  and  God  knows  what  I  have 

done  to  provoke  it !  " 

"You  came  between  her  and  her  hope  of  in- 
I  heritini^  my  uncle's  money  ;  that  \s  all  the  expla- 
nation I  can  olFor  you,  Irene.     It  makes  me  very 
uneasy  to  hear  you  say  the  will  has  been  altered. 
I  What  should  Uncle  Philip  have  altered  it  for?  " 
"  Because,  after  what  he  heard,  he  naturally 
[believed  me  to  be  unworthy  of  having  the  charge 
I  of  so  much  property." 

"Hut  without  ascertaining  if  his  suspicions 

I  were  correct  ?    I  cannot  believe  it  of  him.     Irene, 

il' he  has  permitted  this  old  woman  to  inveigle  you 

I  out  of  your  legal  rights  under  false  pretenses,  I 

I  shall  begin  to  hate  his  memory." 

He  ia  startled  by  her  burst  of  distress. 
"  Hate  kin  mtmory  I    0  Oliver  1    for  shame  I 
How  dare  you  say  so  before  me  ?     My  poor,  kind 
Pliiirp — my  dear,  generous  husband,  who  would 


liuve  laid  (hmn  his  lilc  fi.r  my  Bake ;  if  ho  was 
milled  in  tliU  matter,  it  wan  thniugh  hi'*  great 
love  forme;  ami  I  was  wrong  in  not  sii'kiiig  an 
expliinaiiiMi  with  him  Koonir.  If— if — things  do 
not  turn  out  exactly  as  the  world  may  have  ex- 
pecteil  (»f  him,  I,  for  one,  will  not  hear  the  A\\i\\i- 
est  imputation  of  blame  cast  on  his  memory. 
My  ilarliiig  I'liilii)  (weeping),  would  (lod  bad 
spared  him  one  short  month  nioi'i>  to  nie,  Miat  I 
might  have  tried,  in  some  measure,  to  atone  for 
the  sud'ering  his  suspicious  eau^ed  hint  I  " 

"Irene,  you  are  an  luigel,"  s.iys  Oliver,  impul- 
siv(  ly  ;  '•  but  I  can't  nay  I  see  this  thing  in  the 
same  light  as  }ou  do.  However,  speculation  is 
useless.  \S\\  shall  know  every  thing  soon.  Mean- 
while,  I  suppose  It  wouldn't  be  eonsiilered  de. 
Cent  to  kiek  old  Quekett  out-of-door-i  ln'fore  tin- 
funeral  has  taken  plaei'.'' 

"You  must  do  nothing,  but  be  good  iMid 
"piiet,  and  save  me  all  thetroulile  you  can,  Oliver, 
for  the  next  few  days;  and  after  that,  when  it  is 
all  over,  we  will  consult  together  as  to  the  b  -t 
course  to  pursue." 

lie  sees  her  every  day  after  this,  but  not  for 
long  at  u  time ;  for,  Btiange  ami  iinnattn'al  as  it 
niay  appear  to  the  romantic  reader  that  any  woii\- 
an  who  loves  a  man  ns  completely  as  I''ene  loves 
Muiraven  should  feel  almost  inclined  o  despair 
at  the  death  of  a  prosy  old  husband  like  Colonel 
Mordaunt,  the  young  w  Idow  is,  for  a  time,  really 
overwhelmed  with  grief.  Most  of  us  know,  either 
fronj  experieiiee  or  observation,  what  it  is  to 
wake  up,  after  many  days  and  nights  of  fever,  to 
the  joys  of  convalescence — to  feel  that  the  burn- 
ing pain,  the  restlessness,  tjie  uiKpiiet  dreams, 
the  utter  inability  to  take  any  interest  in  life, 
have  passed  away,  and  that  instead  we  can  sleep 
and  taste  und  understand,  breathe  CJod's  fresh 
air,  drink  in  his  sunshine,  and  recognize  our 
friends.  IIow  grateful — how  good  we  feel !  With 
what  a  consciousness  of  relief  we  remember  the 
past  horrors ;  and  should  we  relapse  and  dream 
of  them  again,  how  thankfully  we  wake  to  find 
our  hand  clasped  by  some  kind,  sympathizing 
nurse,  who  moistens  our  parched  lips,  and  smooths 
our  tumbled  pillow,  and  bid-  us  have  no  fear, 
since  wc  arc  watched  and  tended  even  when  un- 
conscious ! 

Love  for  Muiraven  was  to  Irene  a  fever  of  t!:c 
brain.  It  was  so  deep  and  burning  that  the 
disappointment  of  its  lo^^s  pervaded  her  whole  be- 
ing,  and  almost  worked  its  own  cure  by  robbing 
her  of  interest  in  every  thing  that  had  preceded 
it.  When  she  commenced  life  anew  with  Colone' 
Mordaunt   she   was   in   the   convalescent   stage 


»«  I 


i 


li 


ii 


\ 

\  ■  ■ 

i  ■ 


149 


"NO    INTKNTI0N8." 


Sho  wuH  too  wciik  it.H  yi't  to  nire  to  tiiko  any 
troulilu  for  lit'i'  own  lioiu'llt  or  {iK'iiiuru;  Ixit  liu 
took  it  for  licr.  It  wus  from  lil.<*  Imnd  tiliu  flr.xt 
Iji'ciiint)  mviiri!  thiit  »lio  coiilil  otill  derlvu  I'lijoy- 
iiiviit  from  llio  l)K>sHlng8  which  lloaven  providcH 
0(iunlly  for  itrt  chihlri'ii ;  hl.s  protoi'tion  iiiid  tcn- 
UcriicsH  Hlu'lturi'd  uU  her  marriuJ  lifu  ;  and  if  hiT 
love  U  Mulrttven'H,  licr  unitltudu  Is  alone  duo  to 
her  hiiHhiind.  The  flr:<t  feeling  iiiukes  hur  fhuddcr 
even  to  look  hack  upon — «o  friiught  !.i  it  with 
piiin,  and  heiirt-hurnini;,  and  niiiiery ;  but  the 
Hucond  (hiivo  for  the  lust  Hiid  episodi',  whleh  Irene 
iittributeii  more  to  her  own  fault  tlmn  hii<)  pro- 
vokes no  thou(;hta  but  fiueh  an  are  aHitoeiated 
with  peace.  Ilecaufio  wc  have  been  racked  with 
iingui.sh  and  delirious  with  pain,  arc  wc  to  turn 
against  the  kind  hand  that  ia  stretched  forth  to 
tend  and  Huccor  \i8  ? 

There  is  no  greater  nilHtako  in  iho  world  than 
to  suppose  that  a  man  or  woman  ean  only  love 
once ;  though,  luckily,  the  fooliiih  auppoaition  is 
ehiedy  conilncd  to  establishments  for  young  la- 
dies, and  three-legged  stools.  We  may  never  love 
again  so  ardently  as  wc  did  at  first  (though  that 
jjosslbliity  is  an  open  question) ;  but  wc  may  love, 
and  love  worthily,  half  a  dozen  times,  if  Heaven 
is  good  enough  to  pivo  us  the  opportunity ;  and 
there  ai'o  some  natures  that  must  love,  and  will 
go  on  loving  to  tlio  end  of  the  chapter.  They 
resemble  those  plants  that  only  recpiirc  the  top- 
most shoots  to  be  taken  off  to  make  them  sprout 
out  again  at  the  bottom.  And  Irene  has  never 
resisted  the  promptings  of  youth  and  Nature  to 
make  the  most  of  the  happiness  the  world  afl'ordcd 
her.  She  has  not,  like  some  people,  sat  down  in 
the  dark  with  her  lacerated  love  in  her  laj.,  and 
dared  her  grief  to  die  by  tearing  open  its  wounds 
as  quickly  as  they  closed.  On  the  contrary,  her 
first  wild  burst  of  sorrow  over,  she  placed  it  far 
behind  her,  and  went  out  gladly  to  meet  return- 
ing sunshine,  and  thanked  God  that  she  retained 
the  power  to  appreciate  it.  If  she  has  not  en- 
joyed any  vehement  transports  of  delight  thci'e- 
lore,  during  her  communion  with  Philip  Mordaunt, 
she  has  acknowledged  that  his  affection  mitigated 
her  regret ;  her  heart  has  expanded  beneath  the 
influence  of  his  devotion,  she  has  known  peace 
and  quiet,  and  contentment ;  and  she  misses  it  all 
terribly  now  that  it  is  gone.  She  feela  that  she 
is  once  more  thro  vn  on  the  world  as  she  was  by 
her  mother's  death — unloved,  unguarded,  and 
alone — and  her  sorrow  is  as  genuine  and  honest 
as  was  her  affection. 

Colonel  Mordaunt  was  lucky  enough  not  to 
possess  many  relations,  but  two  or  three  needy 


eouMiriM,  hitherto  unhi'iinl  ot,  crop  up  duiinj^  il,,. 
lU'Xt  few  doyx,  ill  liopca  of  flinliiig  their  nmn,', 
iiiciitioned  in  the  will,  and  (he  lawyer,  all  Ijii-il,. 
and  importance,  with  the  precious  diiciinutit 
stowed  away  in  his  deed-box,  eotiics  dow  n  tl ,, 
day  before  the  fiincnil  and  dixgU!<ts  Oliver  Kal-tiri, 
with  Ills  hi(piacily  and  peitinacious  uttciiiptM  ui 
confidence. 

"You  know  notliiiig  of  this,  hIc,"  he  puw, 
Klapping  the  roll  of  parchment  which  he  currin 
in  his  hand.  "  You  were  not  In  your  late  urult'< 
— yes — j'es — of  course,  «/i<7('» — cecrets  ?  Wdl, 
then,  I  flatter  myself,  sir,  I  have  a  nurpriHe  for 
you.  If  I'm  not  mistaken,  Mr.  Ilalst(m,  Ihavij 
little  surprise  here  for  every  one  connected  wit'i 
my  late  client." 

"  If  you  have,  I  have  no  desire  to  anticlpiiie 
it,  Mr.  Carter.  I  dcm't  like  surprises  at  any  tiiii  •, 
and  I  consider  them  particularly  out  of  placoiiia 
period  lil^  this." 

"  Ah — good,  generous,  of  course — an  mini;. 
rablc  sentiment,  sir ;  but  these  things  arc  notin 
our  hands.  Had  you  any  reason  to  suppose,  nuw, 
that  your  late  lamented  cr — er — uncle  den!;,'!)'  i 
to  olter  his  testamentary  be(piests  in  favor  of—' 

"  Mr.  Carter,"'  exclaims  <  voung  man,  abnipi- 
ly,  "  I  have  already  told  \at  I  can  wait  lil! 

to-morrow  to  learn  my  ui  st  wishes,  amll 

consider  your  attempt  to  provoke  my  curiosity  a 
most  irregular  proceeding,  You  were  of  necesgity 
in  Colonel  Mordaunt's  confidence  ;  be  good  enou|;h 
to  respect  it  until  the  proper  moment  arrives  for 
its  disclosure." 

"  Oh !  very  good — very  good  !  just  as  it  slioull 
be,  of  course,"  replies  the  ruffled  lawyer,  "  only 
public  Burprises  are  apt  to  be  attended  with  la- 
convenience,  and  I  thought,  perhaps,  that  a  little 
preparation — " 

But  hero  Mr.  Carter  indignantly  breaks  off, 
leaving  Oliver  In  a  most  uncomfortable  state  of 
mind,  and  dreading  above  all  things  the  moment 
when  the  will  shall  be  read,  and  these  mysteiiou! 
innuendoes  brought  to  light. 

He  is  very  anxious  that  Irene  shall  not  be 
present  at  the  reading,  but  she  is  resolute  to  ap- 
pear in  her  proper  place,  as  the  mistress  of  Ftn 
Court. 

"  If  I  consulted  my  own  inclinations,  Oliver, 
I  should  remain  up-stairs ;  but  that  teomaii  vill 
be  present,  and  I  am  determined  she  shall  ^oe 
that  I  can  bear  the  fate  which  she  has  brouglit 
upon  me  without  wincing.  It  would  bo  such  ;i 
triumph  to  her  to  think  that  the  mere  anticipation 
had  made  me  too  ill  to  appear." 

"  Why  will    you  talk   in   this  way,  Irene? 


,^4*^.. 


READIXf}   TIIK   WILL. 


143 


nantly  breaks  off, 
fortabic  stated' 

inga  the  moment 
these  mysteriou: 


his  way,  Irene? 


Why  prop:nogtlcalo  niUfortiino  which  I  cniimtt  lie- 

li«r«in?" 

"  Wait  and  noo,  (Mivcr,"  ii*  nil  hIio  anAwom. 
It  l,^  A  lu'lj^lit,  enlil  (lay  when  tlu-y  carry  Colo- 
mi  Monlauiit  to  IiIh  grave  in  the  (|iiiL>t  ehurcli. 
virJ  of  l'ri(>!4tloy.  Irene  in  •nximiit  to  nttonil  the 
lineril,  but  her  wl^h  U  overnileil  by  Oliver,  who 
i\ire4<'0!i  that  If  she  (loco  !>o,  hiit  aunt  Isabella,  and 
iirobiibly  Mri).  Qiiekett,  will  follow  her  rxaiiiide, 
mid  nuiko  a  scene  durinj^  the  ceremony.  lie 
omiil  trust  Irene,  but  he  cannot  trust  the  others; 
m'l,  like  most  youn^;  men,  he  has  a  righteous 
hurriir  of  a  scene.  So  ho  persuades  the  youn^ 
KJilow  to  remain  at  home,  and  is  liimsrlf  chief 

I  ino:irncr.  It  is  not  a  firand  funeral,  but  it  is  a 
viry  Imposing  one,  followed  by  almost  all  the 
iiiiMuhprs  of  the  hunt,  with  Sir  John  Coote  at  their 
hi'.id;  and  it  gratifies  Irene  to  see  how  much  lier 
hii'<lmnd  was  held  iii  consideration  by  those  who 
knew  him  most  Intimately.  At  last  it  is  over. 
Oliver  is  back  again  ;  the  visitors,  with  the  ex- 
ci'ptioii  of  Sir  John,  have  dispersed,  and  the  family 

I  are  left  to  themselves. 

Throe  o'clock  has  been  fixed  for  the  reading 

I  ol'  the  will,  and,  as  the  hour  strikes,  Irene,  dresso  I 
ill  ber  deep  uiouruin^,  with  Tommy  clinging  to 
her  hand,  comes  downstairs  for  the  first    tim.' 

|*ineo  her   bereavement,  and,  walking    into   th'> 

Idioing-room  on  Oliver  Ralston'a  arm,  ta'.tes  the 
chair  which  ho  wheels  forward  for  her,  and  scats 
hiTi^elf  in  tho  centre  of  the  circle.  She  bows  to 
ihi  company  generally  as  she  enters,  but  she  looks 
at  no  one  but  the  lawyer,  though  she  is  conscious, 

Uithout  seeing  it,  that  Mrs.  Quekctt  is  sitting 
I'early  opposite  to  her,  with  her  elbow  resting 

I  easily  upon  tho  table,  and  a  satisfied,  malignant 
.<mile  of  coming  triumph  fixed  npon  her  counte- 

I  nance.    Mr.  Carter  hums  and  ha'g  as  ho  unfolds 

I  the  parchment. 

Why  do  lawyers  always  "  hum "  and  "  ha  " 

I  before  they  read  a  will?    Are  they  nervous  by 

Inaturo  (they  ought  not  to  be),  or  is  the  peculiari- 

Ity  alluded  to  supposed  to  add   dignity  to  their 

I  position,  or  importance  to  their  charge?     It  is  a 

I  fact  that  they  always  do  so. 

Mr.  Carter,  being  no  exception  to  the  rule, 

Iclears  his   throat  until  he  makes  himself  quite 

Ihoarse,  and  is  obliged  to  osk  for  a  glass  of  water. 

■Then  he  gives  two  or  three  final  coughs  as  a 

jwind-up,  and  proceeds  to  make  tho  following 

letatempnt : 

"Life    is  very  uncertain,"   commencea    Mr. 

ICarter,  as  he  smooths  out  the  creases  in  the  parch- 

Imcnt,  "  In  fact,  there  is  nothing  certain  in  life. 

IWe  are  used  to  great  changes  in  our  profession, 


and  ^M•l'ilt  ."urprlsi's — very  great  surprise's  ! — In- 
dci'il,  we  are  never  ("urpriscd  at  any  thing  wo  ni.iy 
hear  or  see—" 

"  ILis  this  any  thing  to  do  with  the  will?" 
nays  IriMic,  with  an  iiup'oring  glame  at  lUivcr, 
'  who  immeillately  addn'sses  tho  I.iwyer; 

"  We  lire  ext.'rcdln>;ly  obll'.'cd  fur  your  Montt- 

I  nients,  Mr.  Carter,  but  Mrs.  Moidaunt  would  pre- 

lor  your  proceeding  to  buslncHS.     You  must  re- 

mcniber  this  Is  tin;  first  litne  kIu-  has  ventured 

down-stairs." 

"  Ah!  of  course;  I  have  to  beg  your  pardon, 

in:idiini — and  yet,  under  the  eircuinstanci'S,  pcr- 

hllp^ —     Well,  well,  then  "  (with  a  more  cheerful 

I  air) — "  to  business,     Not  but  what  iriy  remarks 

were  made  with  a  view  in  that  direction.     I  have 

I  a  docunu'iit  here,  the  contents  o(  which  I  think 

lire  unknown  to  most  present.     It  will  in  fact,  I 

I  fear"  (with  a  glance  at  Irene  over  liis  spectacles), 

I  "  prove  to  be  one  of  those  surprises  to  which  I 

alluded  on  first  taking  my  place  auiong  you — " 

j         "  It  will  not  prove,  perhaps,  so  great  a  sur- 

I  prise  as  you  anticipate,"  says  Irene,  iu  a  clear 

'  cold  voice  that  makes  Mrs.  (Quekctt  start.     "  At 

any  r      ,  we  are  assembled  to  hear  it." 

"  .Vs  you  will,  madam — ns  you  will,"  returns 
Mr.  Carter,  somewhat  nettled.  "  I  only  wi>hed 
to  spare  you  an  unpleasant  shock." 

"  A  shock  for  Mrs.  Mordaunt !  What  can  hn 
mean  ?  "  exclaims  Sir  John  Coote,  quickly. 

The  house-keeper  smiles  furtively,  and  ifniooths 
tho  crape  upon  her  dress-sleeve. 

"  Sir  John,  I  must  entreat  you  to  bo  quiet  and 
let  Mr.  Carter  proceed,"  says  Irene.  "  Whatever 
may  be  in  store  for  mo,  be  assured  that  I  am  quite 
able  to  bear  it." 

Sir  John  exchanges  glances  of  astonishment 
with  Oliver. 

"  You  arc  to  go  on,"  says  the  latter  roughly, 
to  the  lawyer.  On  which  tlie  reading  of  tho  will 
is  commenced  and  finished  without  further  inter- 
ruption. 

It  is  very  brief  and  very  explicit.  It  com- 
mences with  a  bequest  of  five  thousand  pounds  to 
his  sister  Isabella  Mordaunt,  and  goes  on  to  leave 
all  tho  remainder  of  his  property,  funded  and 
personal — his  house  and  lands,  and  plate  and 
furniture — to  his  illegitimate  son  Oliver,  generally 
known  as  Oliver  Ralston,  on  condition  of  his  tak- 
ing the  name  of  Mordaunt.  Of  Irene,  from  be^ 
ginning  to  end,  not  a  syllable  is  mentioned  I         4r* 

How  do  they  receive  it  ? 

As  the  words,  one  after  another,  drop  mark- 
edly from  tho  lawyei's  lips,  the  house-keeper  may 
be  observed  to  turn  uneasily  upon  her  seat — she 


i 


r-^. 


l; 


it 


t 


if 


li 


''if 


i^f!f 


''■Ft 

m 

m 


11 


I 


|l!;iti,.t»:«  it 


144 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


is  cvidi'iitly  disnppoiiitid  ;  the  cousins  look  mis- 
croble;  Sir  John  Cootc  grows  crimson  in  tliu 
face,  and  liiilf  rises  from  lii.H  dmir.  To  Irene's 
])(\le  chctlis  there  mounts  a  llu.sli  of  pride,  nnd 
hIic  draws  lier  adojitcd  child,  .ilmo.-t  defiantly, 
closer  to  lier  side ;  and  Isabella,  as  her  name  is 
mentioned,  weeps  loud  and  openly.  But  Oliver 
Ual.-iton  demands  a  pacaj^raph  to  himself. 

As  the  truth  breaks  in  upon  his  mind,  that 
Irene  has  been  delVauilcd  of  her  rights,  his  teeth 
set  and  his  hand  clinches  itself  furtively  upon  the 
arm  of  his  chair.  IJrit  as  the  fatal  termination  of 
the  will  reveals  who  he  is,  and  the  reason  why  he 
inherits  to  her  detriment,  he  loolis  up  quickly,  the 
blood  forsakes  his  face,  and  he  rises  tremblingly 
to  his  feet. 

"  /('.I  a  lie  /  "  he  says,  striking  his  hand  upon 
the  table. 

"Oliver — Oliver,  for  God's  suite,  forbear! 
Tliink  'vhat  you  arc  saying !  "  cries  Irene,  as  she 
catches  hold  of  liis  arm. 

"  Let  me  go,  Irene  !  I  repeat  it,"'  ho  says  fu- 
riously, "I  am  not  his  sou.  It's  some  infernal  lie 
hatched  up  by  that  old  harridan  for  my  destruc- 
tion. Yes,"  he  continues,  addressing  ]ilrs.  Quck- 
etf,  who  has  risen,  as  though  to  answer  him,  "I 
don't  care  >vhat  you  say,  nor  what  you  think, 
you  have  made  the  misery  of  this  house  for  years 
past.  You  have  held  the  secrets  of  my  uncle  and 
my  uncle's  father  over  their  heads  until  they 
hardly  dared  to  act  without  your  assistance.  But 
your  reign  is  over.  You'-  last  victim  is  in  his 
grave ;  and  you  shall  not  continue  your  work  of 
infamy  in  my  behalf." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  what  has  this  good  lady 
to  do  with  my  late  client's  bequests  ?  ''  interrupts 
the  lawyer,  soothingly. 

"  Command  yourscK,  Ralston,"  urges  Sir  John. 

"  Command  mijirlf!  Stand  quietly  by  to  see 
this  poor  girl  robbed  of  her  rights,  and  my  own 
life  branded  with  a  stigma,  for  which  no  wealth 
can  atone  1  I  am  not  his  son,  I  tell  you — I  am 
his  nephew,  the  child  of  his  sister  Mary — " 

"Uis  sister's  child  died  before  she  did,  young 
mail.  You  are  the  child  of  my  daughter,  Mary 
Quekett ;  and,  if  the  shame  of  hearing  it  kills  you, 
it's  no  more  than  it  did  to  my  poor  girl." 

It  is  the  house-keeper  that  speaks  to  him. 

"  I  won't  believe  it,"  he  mutters,  as  he  stag- 
gers backward.  But  he  Joes  believe  it,  for  all  his 
bravado. 

"  You  can  do  as  yon  please  about  that,"  con- 
tinues Mrs.  Quekett ;  "  but  I  can  take  my  Biule- 
oath  that  it's  the  truth.  And  for  what  should 
the  colonel  go  to  leave  you  all  his  property,  if  it 


wasn't  ?  lie  was  mistaken  enough  in  those  tlmt 
lie  thought  worthy,  and  though  he  miglit  Imv. 
found  better  llian  yourself,  maybe,  to  step  im,, 
his  shoes — " 

"  Silence,  woman  !  "  exclaims  Oliver,  in  a  voi;  t 
of  thunder.  "If  this  most  iniquiious  will  U  a], 
lowed  to  stand,  1  am  master  in  this  house  iiow- 
and  I  order  you  to  leave  the  room." 

"  You  order  me  to  leave  the  room  !  slie  \\\wV 
your  nearest  of  kin — your  own  mother's  motlar,' 
she  says,  breathless,  in  her  surprise. 

"  Don't  mention  the  fact — dtin't  remind  mc  of 
it,  lest  I  should  do  you  an  injury.  If  you  wc\ 
twenty  times  my  motiicr's  mother,  I  should  liavj 
no  compassion  for  you.  Leave  the  room  I  tay, 
and  rid  us  of  a  presence  we  detest." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir — "  interposes  the  hiwvc. 
unwisely. 

"  Who  are  you  to  dictate  to  me?"  exiliiin.. 
Oliver,  turning  round  on  him  ;  "  you  have  coi;; 
to  the  cud  of  your  infernal  parchment,  I  suppo.ii. 
and  your  business  here  is  completed.  If  you  hav. 
read  it  aright,  this  house  is  mine,  and  I  shall  isM; 
what  orders  in  it  I  think  fit.  I  command  \\:.: 
woman  to  leave  this  room,  and  at  once,  or  I  i\\i:. 
put  her  out  of  it." 

"  Oh  !  you  needn't  be  afraid  that  I  shall  fU] 
to  be  laid  violent  hands  on  by  you,  young  mac, 
though  you  are  my  grandson,"  r^idics  Mrs.  Qutk- 
ctt,  tossing  her  head.  "  I  have  my  own  iiieon;., 
thank  lleaven,  and  no  need  to  be  beholden  toyc^ 
or  any  one. — I  think  the  old  gentleman  niiglr. 
have  done  better  than  choose  you  for  his  suciis- 
sor;  but,  as  it  is,  he  did  it  for  my  sake  nior, 
than  for  your  own,  and  as  a  recompense  for  wlia; 
I've  suftcred  at  his  hands,  though  there's  few  xk- 
ompenses  would  make  up  for  it.  He  led  away 
my  poor  daughter  before  she  came  to  her  sis- 
teenth  year,  and  has  had  to  pay  pretty  sharp  for 
it  ever  since,  for  I  don't  believe  he's  had  a  qui ; 
home  since  he  passed  you  off  on  tlie  world  as  h;^ 
sister's  sor  ,  and  the  many  minds  he's  been  in 
about  it  since  he  married  that  young  woman—" 

"  Will  you  leave  the  room  ?  "  cries  Oliver, 
again  ;  and  this  time  Mrs.  Quekett  thinks  it  mori' 
politic  to  acquiesce. 

"  Well,  as  there's  nothing  more  to  stay  for,  I 
don't  see  why  I  shouldn't ;  but  it's  not  the  la-' 
you'll  hear  of  me,  young  man,  by  a  good  bii." 
And  so  saying,  white  with  envy  and  malice,  slie 
sails  awav. 

"  Irene,  I  cannot  bear  it,"  exclaims  Oliver,  ai 
he  sinks  into  a  chair  and  covers  his  face  with  bi> 
hands.     "  If  it  had  been  any  thing  but  that—" 

"  My  poor  boy,  I  feel  it  so  much  for  ycur  salse 


THE   HEIR  OF  FEN  COURT. 


145 


iiore  to  stay  for,  I 
it's  not  the  la^! 
by  a  good  bit." 

y  and  malice,  sl:8 


^Sir  John,  \a  there  any  thing  more  to  do  ?  any 
reason  why  we  should  not  be  left  alone  ? " 

"None  whatever,  my  dear. — Mr.  Carter,  Mrs. 
JiorJaunt  wishes  the  room  cloared.  He  good 
enough  to  retire  with   these  gentlemen  to  the 

next." 

So  the  company,  much  disappointed  at  the 
i^sue  of  events,  disappear,  and  Sir  Jolm  Cootc 
L'ues  with  them,  and  no  one  is  left  with  the  heir 
uf  Fea  Court  but  Irene  and  Isabella  and  the  little 
child. 

Oliver  remains  where  he  has  thrown  himself — 
miserable,  abashed,  and  silent. 

"  Oliver,"  says  Irene  presently,  in  her  sweet, 
f,iJ  voice,  "  be  comforted,  lie  did  you  a  great 
injury,  but  he  has  tried  to  atone  for  it.  Remem- 
ber how  kind  and  loving  he  always  proved  him- 
jilf  toward  >.'>u,  and  forgive  him  for  the  want  of 
courage  that  prevented  his  letting  you  know  your 
real  relationship  from  the  first." 

"  Forgive  him  I  whjn  ho  has  robbed  you  of 
erery  thing  ?  When  he  has  disgraced  you  in  the 
(■yes  of  the  world  by  passing  over  your  name  in 
liii  will  as  though  you  were  not  worthy  to  be 
mentioned,  instead  of  being  the  most  careful,  at- 
tentive, affectionate  wife  a  man  could  have  !  He 
iras  not  worthy  of  you.  I  never  thought  so  little 
of  liim  as  I  do  now." 

•'  Oh,  hush,  Oliver  !  Pray  hush  !     You  cannot 

I  l;now  how  you  are  wounding  me.  I  do  not  pre- 
tend to  be  indifferent  to  the  turn  affairs  have 
taiien.  It  is  a  great  disappointment  and  raisfor- 
tuQC,  and  shame  to  me,  but  I  feel  that  he  is  suffer- 

I  ing  for  it  now  so  much  more  than  I  am,  that  I  for- 

I  get  my  misery  in  the  contemplation  of  his.  And 
I  cannot  permit  you  to  blame  him  before  me. 
Wiien  Philip  made  that  will,  he  thought  that  he 
was  doing  right,  and  I  am  very  thankful  that,  as 
I  was  not  to  have  it,  he  should  have  left  his  prop- 

t  erty  to  you  instead  of  to  some  public  institu- 

I  lion." 

"  I  am  not  thankful  at  all.    I  hate  the  very 

I  idea  of  surplanting  you.  I  never  will  do  it,  Irene. 
I  refuse  to  take  advantage  of  my — my — uncWs 
iaibeeility,  or  to  accept  a  trust  which  is  rightfully 
yours,  and  which  you  have  done  nothing  to  for- 
feit. What!  Do  you  think  I  will  reign  here 
while  you  are  starving  out  in  the  cold  ?    I  will 

[  cut  my  throat  first." 

"  I  shall  not  starve,  Oliver  ;  I  have  my  own 
little  income.     Philip  knew  that  I  was  provided 

I  for." 

"  Pshaw ! — a  hundred  a  year.    How  can  you 

live  on  that,  who  have  been  accustomed  to  every 

I  luxury  ?    It  is  impossible." 

10 


"  It  is  quite  possible  ;  and  I  mean  to  do  it." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Alordaunt,"  hero  interrupts 
Isabella,  for  the  first  time — "  but  what — have  I 
understood  riglitly — why  docs  Oliver  .^peak  of 
your  leaving  the  Court  ?  " 

"  Did  you  not  listen  to  your  brother's  will  t  " 
replies  Irene,  (luietiy.  "  Ho  has  left  every  ihing 
to — to  his  son — " 

"  His  son  I  Oil,  dear '.  and  you  know  it,  then  ? 
And  I  always  told  Philip  it  would  be  so  much  bet- 
ter  to  tell  at  once.  But  why  to  his  son  ?  I  don't 
think  I  can  have  listened  properly — these  things 
upset  nie  so.  You  are  not  going  away,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Mordaunt  ?  " 

"  I  must  go  away,  Isabella.  Dear  Philip  (you 
must  not  blame  him,  for  he  thought  that  he  waa 
committing  an  act  of  justice)  has  made  Oliver  his 
heir;  therefore  Fen  Court  is  no  longer  mine. 
But  I  am  not  ambitious,  and  I  shall  do  very  well, 
and  will  not  have  any  of  my  friends  concern 
themselves  on  my  account." 

"  If  you  will  not  remain  at  Fen  Court,  neither 
will  I,"  interposes  Oliver. 

"But  where  will  you  go?  "  di.  ands  Isabella, 
excitedly;  "and  you  have  so  little  money." 

"  Dear  Isabella,  don't  worry  yourself  about 
that.  I  have  plenty  of  places  to  go  to,  and  kind 
friends  to  look  after  me,  and  I  shall  be  very  hap- 
py by-and-by,"  says  Irene,  witli  a  sob,  as  she  re- 
members how  little  truth  there  is  in  what  she 
says. 

"  But  we  shall  not  see  you,"  replies  Miss  Mor- 
daunt, as  she  rises  and  advances  to  the  side  of 
her  sister-in-law ;  "  and — and — 0  Irene  !  "  she 
goes  on,  becoming  natural  in  her  emotion,  "  don't 
go  away,  don't  leave  us  again.  You  are  the  only 
creature  I  have  loved  for  years." 

'•  My  dear  Isabella  ! "  says  the  young  widow, 
as  the  tears  rise  to  her  eyes  at  tliis  unexpected 
proof  of  affection,  "  why  did  you  not  let  me  know 
it  before  ?    It  would  have  made  me  so  happy." 

"  Oh  !  I  couldn't— I  didn't  like— and  then, 
you  know,  you  had  Philip.  But  now — and  to 
think  he  could  have  wronged  you  so  !  Oh !  my 
dear  girl,  da  take  my  money — it's  veiy  little,  but 
I  don't  want  it.  I  have  the  legacy  my  father  left 
me,  and  Oliver  will  let  me  stay  on  liere.  It  would 
make  me  so  much  more  comfortable  to  think  you 
had  it,  and  I  couldn't  touch  a  halfpenny  of  it, 
while  things  remain  as  they  are." 

"  Bravo'.  Aunt  Isabella  ! ''  exclaims  Oliver. 
"  I  didn't  think  you  were  half  such  a  brick.  Live 
here  ?  of  course  you  shall  1  You  must  both  live 
here,  or  I  shall  have  the  place  abut  up." 

"  What  have  I  done  that  you  should  be  ao 


I 


14G 


"NO  IMTENTIONS." 


ill 


ill  I 


i  "m': 


'-ft.  > 


:*■ 


:m 


N  m 


kind  to  tnc?"  says  Irene,  as  she  bursts  into  tcara 
of  gratitiulo  and  surprise.  Hut  she  has  no  in- 
tention of  accepting  either  of  their  offers,  never- 
theless. 

"  You  do  not  undcrs'  id  niy  feelings  on  this 
Eulijcct,"  EJO  says  to  Oliver,  a  few  hours  later, 
when  they  arc  again  discussing  the  advisability 
of  her  departure.  "  I  have  been  suppccted  of 
the  grossest  crime  of  which  a  woman  can  be 
guilty ;  that  of  marrying  an  honest  man  under 
false  pretenses ;  and  my  husband's  feelings  con- 
cerning it  have  been  made  public  property ;  for 
you  can  have  no  doubt  that  the  curiosity  which 
the  provisions  of  his  will  excited  has  been  al- 
ready satisfied  by  Mrs.  Quekctt's  version  of  the 
story." 

"Can  nothing  be  done  to  rectify  the  slan- 
der ?  " 

"Nothing.  Pray  do  not  attempt  it,"  she 
r-ays,  shrinking  from  the  idea  of  such  an  explana- 
tion being  necessary.  "  I  am  conscious  of  my 
own  integrity.  Lot  mo  live  the  scandal  down — 
only  it  cannot  be  at  Fen  Court." 

"  Why  not  ?  Had  my  uncle  lived  a  few  hours 
longer,  this  will  would  have  been  altered." 

"Perhaps  so;  but  I  must  abide  by  it  as  it 
stands — and  I  have  too  much  pride,  Oliver,  to 
let  the  world  think  I  would  accept  a  position  he 
didn't  think  me  worthy  to  maintain.  It  was  a 
f'tal  mistake  on  his  part,  but  it  is  God's  will, 
and  I  must  suffer  for  it.  I  am  quite  determined 
to  quit  the  Court." 

"  Then  I  shall  quit  it  too.  I  will  not  live 
here  in  your  stead.     It  would  make  me  wretched." 

"Oliver!  you  cannot  mean  it.  You  would 
never  bo  so  foolish.  What  will  become  of  all 
this  fine  property  without  a  master  ? " 

"I  don't  care  a  hang  what  becomes  of  it.  If 
you  will  stay  and  look  after  it  with  rac,  I  will  re- 
main." 

"That  would  be  impossible,  Oliver,  in  any 
case.    You  forget  what  you  are  talking  about." 

"  Then  stay  here  by  yourself." 

"  Still  more  impossible.  Pray  do  not  torture 
mc  by  any  more  entreaties.  In  plain  words, 
Oliver,  this  child  is  supposed  to  be  mine.  He  is 
not  mine,  but  I  have  no  intention  of  parting  with 
him,  at  all  events,  at  present.  Therefore  we  must 
go  away  and  hang  our  humiliated  heads  some- 
where together." 

"  I  wish  you  had  never  seen  the  brat." 

"  I  don't," 

"  What !  not  after  all  he  has  brought  upon 


you 


?" 

"It  is  not  his  fault." 


"  Poor  little  devil,    /ought  to  feel  for  him. 

0  Irene!  the  bitterest  part  of  it  all  is  th? 
knowledge  that  I  have  any  of  that  woman's  blocii 
running  in  my  veins.  When  I  think  of  it  I  could 
— I  could — "  clinching  his  fist. 

"  Hush !  yes,  it  is  a  bitter  pill  to  swalW. 
But  think  of  the  misery  it  must  have  caused  hitn. 
To  have  her  threats  of  exposure  constantly  licH 
over  his  head.  Poor  Philip !  Ilad  wc  becc 
more  confidential,  how  much  unhappincBS  nc 
might  have  saved  each  other.  What  do  you  in. 
tend  to  do  about  Mrs.  Quekctt  ?  " 

"  Turn  her  out  of  the  house  ! " 

"Oh,  Oliver!  however  hard  it  may  be,  yoi 
should  remember  now  that  she  is — i/our  gruni 
mother  I " 

But  the  words  arc  hardly  out  of  her  nioiiili 
before  Irene  is  frightened  at  the  cfTcet  of  them. 

"  My  grandmother  !  "  he  exclaims,  rising  sud- 1 
denly  to  his  feet,  "  it  is  that  fact  alone,  Irene,  tlia; 
decides  me.     Had  she  not  been  my  rirandmother,  I 
might  have  made  allowances  for  her  infamoci  I 
conduct.    But  that  she — who  brought  my  mother 
into  the  world,  and  professed  to  love  her — shouli  | 
have  systematically  tortured /i/«  life,  and  doneali 
she  could  to  set  him  against  me,  whom  he  bad  >c 
fearfully  wronged,   completely  steels  my  heaii  | 
against    her.     Were    she   an   ordinary  scrvaw, 
grasping,  authoritative,  and  contentious,  I  migli  I 
have  made  allowances  for  her  age  and  length  of 
service,  and  fidelity ;  but  now  I  can  make  none 

1  am  only  anxious  to  rid  myself  of  a  presence  I 
have  always  hated,  and  now  most  thoroughly  de- 1 
spise.     Mrs.  Quekctt  goes  to-morrow." 

"  Have  you  told  her  so  ?  " 

"  I  have !  We  have  just  enjoyed  a  most  I 
stormy  interview ;  but  the  old  woman  knows  ej  I 
mind,  and  that  I  am  resolute.  To-morroiv  sefM 
her  leave  Fen  Court,  never  to  return,  except  in  I 
my  bitterest  memory." 

"  Try  to  forgive,  Oliver." 

"  Don't  ask  me  that  yet,  Irene.    At  preset; 
I  can  neither  forgive  nor  forget.     The  man  vtlio  I 
strangles  his   bastard  in  the  birth  is  a  kinder 
father  than  he  who  permits  him  to  grow  up  to  | 
maturity  in  ignorance  of  his  misfortune." 

The  next  few  days  pass  quietly  enough.    Tl;;| 
house-keeper  is  gone,  and  the  Court  is  deserted 
Irene  has  received  a  letter  from  her  aunt,  Slri  | 
Cavendish,  and  announces  her  intention  of  takii: 
Tommy  to  Sydenham  with  her  on  a  short  visit. 

"And  afterward  you  will  return  here,  dear  I 
Irene,"  says  Oliver ;  "  I  can  decide  on  notliinj  I 
till  I  know  your  plans." 


MRS.   IIORDAUNTS  DEPARTURE. 


147 


enjoyed  a  Diost 
woman  knows  nj 
To-morrow  sk;  | 
return,  except  i: 


ietly  enougli.    Tb| 
Court  is  dcsertcl 

cm  her  aunt,  Mrs 
intention  of  takiK  I 
on  a  short  Tisit. 
return  here,  dcstl 

decide  on  notliit! 


"I  will  writL'  to  you  on  tliesubjoct,"  is  all  licv 
answer,  and  tlioy  an-  obliged  to  let  her  go,  uud 
trust  to  persuading  her  to  take  up  her  final  abode 
with  them  inofo  ellectually  by  letter  than  byword 
oi'  mouth. 

But  when  she  ha.'j  been  at  Sy  Jcuham  for  about 
a  week,  Irene  writes  to  tell  Oliver  that  lie  must 
at  once  abandon  all  hope  that  she  will  ever  return 
t)Fea  Court.     She  has  fixed  on  bcr  future  resi- 
dence, she  affirms,  but  intends  for  the  present  to 
keep  its  destination  a  secret,  even  from  her  own 
relations,  in  order  that  he  may  Lave  no  excuse 
I  lor  attempting  to  seek  her  out.     It  is  a  long  let- 
tor,  full  of  explanation,  but  wrilteu  so  culndy  aud 
resolutely  that  Oliver  feels  that  there  is  nothing 
to  be  done  but  acquiesce  ia  her  decision.    She 
hop  him,  however,  so  earnestly,  for   her   sake 
and  the  sake  of  her  dear  dead  husband,  tiot  to 
abandon  the   property  confided   to  his  charge, 
tliat  he  feels  bound  to  follow  her  wishes  and  re- 
I  main  where  he  Ij.     lie  makes  several  attempts, 
I  nevertheless,  to  trace  her  whereabouts,  by  letters 
It)  Mrs.  Cavendish  and  Mr.  Walmsley,  the  solici- 
I  tor,  but  the  lady  appears  as  distressed  at  her 
Iciece's  leaving  her  in  ignorance  as  ho  is,  and  the 
lawyer  is  deep  and  silent  as  the  grave.     And  so 
ll'orthe  nonce  Oliver  Ralston — or  Mordaunt,  as  he 
linust  now  be  called — tries  to  make  himself  eon- 
Itentcd  by  wielding  the  sceptre  at  Fen  Court  and 
Ijevising  plans  with  the  sapient  Isabella  for  eir- 
Icumventing    the    young    widow's    resolution  to 
Ireuiain  undiscovered.     But    all   in  vain ;    three 
Imonths  pass,  and  they  arc  still  ignorant  of  her 
WoJtination.     It  is   close  upon   Christmps    day, 
nhea  one  afternoon  a  card  is  brought  in  to  Oliver 
ion  which  is  inscribed  the  name  of  Lord  Muiraven. 
Koff,  before  Irene's  departure  she  had  confided 
lo  hira  all  the  details  of  the  torn  letter,  and  her 
past  interview  with  her  husband,  so  that  he  hopes 
Lord  Muiraven  may  have  seen  her  or  come  from 
her,  and  goes  in  to  meet  him  gladly.    Two  gen- 
lleinan  await  him  in  the  library  ;  one  clad  in  deep 
[iiourning,  whom  he  concludes  to  be  Muiraven; 
llie  other,  a  shorter,  fairer,  less  handsome,  but 
uore  cheerful-looking  man,  whom  we  have  met 
biice  before,  but  doubtless  quite  forgotten ;  who 
p^as  Muiraven's  chum  at  college,  and  is  now  Saville 
lloxon,  Esq.,  barrister-at-law,  and  owner  of  the 
jjoliicst  set  of  chambers  in  the  Toraplc. 

"Mr.  Mordaunt,  I  believe,"  says  Muiraven, 
lather  stiffly;  "the  —  the  nephew  of  my  late 
[iiend  Colonel  Mordaunt." 

"I  am  Mr.  Mordaunt ;  and  I  have  often  beard 
lour  name  from  my  uncle's  wife.  Won't  you  sit 
lown  ? " 


His  eonlial  manner  rather  overcomes  the 
other's  hanhiir. 

"  Let  me  introduce  tiiy  friend  Mr.  Moxon," 
he  commences,  and  tlan,  taking  a  chair,  "  We 
shall  not  detain  you  long,  Mr.  Mordamit.  I  was 
much  surprised  to  harn  that  Mrs.  Mordaunt  is 
not  living  at  the  Court.  I  came  here  fully  expect- 
ing to  see  her.  I  am  anxious  to  ascertain  her  ad- 
dress.    'Will  you  kindly  give  it  me  'i  " 

"  I  wish  I  could.  Lord  Muiraven.  I  do  not 
know  it  myself.  I  was  in  hopes  you  In-onght  me 
news  of  her." 

"  Brought  you  news  !  IIow  strange  !  But 
why  is  she  not  IiereV  Is  theie  any  mystery 
about  it  ?  " 

"  Xo  mystery — but  much  sadness.  I  am  not 
a  man  to  be  envied.  Lord  Muiraven.  I  stand 
hero,  by  my  uncle's  will,  the  owner  of  Fen  Court, 
to  the  wroiig  and  detriment  of  one  of  the  noblest 
and  most  worthy  women  God  ever  made." 

"  You  arc  right  there,"  exclaims  Muiraven,  as 
he  seizes  the  other's  hand.  "But,  pray  tell  me 
every  thing.  My  friend  here  is  as  my  second 
self.  You  may  speak  with  impunity  before  hiru. 
For  God's  sake,  put  mo  out  of  suspense  !  Where 
is  Irene  and  the  child  ?  " 

"  If  I  may  speak  openly,  my  lord,  tliat  un- 
fortunate child  has  been  the  cause  of  all  our 
misery  ! "' 

"  But— how— how  ?  " 

Thvu  Oliver  tells  thetn  how,  in  words  that 
would  be  but  repetition  to  write  down  again, 
lie  conceals  nothing,  hoping  that  Lord  Muir- 
aven may  see  the  justice  of  following  up  Irene 
and  relieving  her  of  so  onerous  a  charge  as  the 
protection  of  his  illegitimate  cliihl.  But  as  he 
proceeds  he  can  perceive  no  blush  of  shame  upon 
Muiraven's  face ;  on  the  contrary,  although  he 
grows  pale  with  excitement,  his  eyes  never  once 
flinch  before  those  of  his  informant.  When  the 
story  is  concluded,  he  turns  round  to  Moxon,  and 
addresses  him. 

"  Saville,  wo  must  leave  this  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. I  must  begin  the  search  again  in  London. 
I  feci  as  though  I  could  not  let  an  hour  pass  over 
my  head  without  doing  something.  Tlumks,  Mr. 
Mordaunt,  for  your  candid  explanation.  You  have 
done  me  the  greatest  service  possible. — If  Irene 
is  to  be  found,  I  will  send  you  news  of  her." 

"  But,  my  lord— excuse  my  curiosity — but 
will  you  be  as  candid  as  I  have  been,  and  let  rac 
know  if  the  suspicions  Irene  holds  with  respect 
to  her  adopted  child  are  correct  ?  " 

"  They  are  so,  Mr.  Mordaunt,  and  they  are  not. 
The  time  for  concealment  is  at  an  end.    The  boy 


i 


148 


'NO  intentions; 


r- 


i 


lJ^:il:ftl|i''|:  • 


whom  you  liave  known  under  the  name  of  Tommy 
Brown  is  uu/  lawful  S'jii — and  the  htir  to  my  father's 
earldom." 


CHAPTEU  XIII. 

In  order  to  explain  tlie  foregoing  statement  to 
my  readers  it  la  necessary  that  I  should  take  them 
Ijaek  to  the  time  when  Joel  Cray  left  Priestley. 

It  seems  a  hard  thing  to  say,  but  there  is  no 
doubt  it  is  true,  that  the  lower  orders,  ab  a  rule, 
do  not  feel  the  happiness  of  loving,  nor  the  mis- 
ery of  losing  love,  so  keenly  as  their  brethren  of 
the  upper  class.  The  old-fashioned  idea  that  vir- 
tue and  simplicity  arc  oftener  to  be  found  in  the 
country  than  the  town,  and  among  the  poor 
than  the  rich,  has  long  since  exploded.  Simple, 
the  half-heathen  villagers  may  still  remain ;  but 
it  is  oftener  the  hideous  simplicity  of  open  vice, 
so  general  that  its  followers  have  not  even  the 
grace  left  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  than  the  innocence 
that  thinks  no  evil,  if  the  inhabitants  of  our 
great  towns  are  vicious,  they  at  least  try  to  hide 
it.  Even  with  the  virtuous  poor  the  idea  of  love 
(as  we  think  of  love)  seldom  enters  into  their  cal- 
culations on  marriage.  They  see  a  girl  whom 
they  admire,  who  seems  "  likely  "  in  their  eyes, 
and,  after  their  rough  fashion,  they  commence  to 
court  her,  "  keep  company  "  with  her  for  a  few 
years,  at  the  end  of  which  time,  perhaps,  she  falls 
in  with  a  "  likehcr  "  young  man  ;  and  then,  if  the 
first  suitor  has  been  really  in  eaniest,  a  few  blows 
are  exchanged  between  the  rivals,  separation  en- 
sues, and  he  looks  out  for  another  partner.  The 
women  are  even  more  phlegmatic  than  the  men. 
They  regard  marriage  simply  as  a  settlement  in 
life,  and  any  one  appears  to  bo  eligible  who  can 
place  them  in  a  house  of  their  own.  If  the  first 
comer  is  faithless,  tliey  cry  out  about  it  lou'dly 
and  publicly  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  it  is  over; 
and  they  also  arc  free  to  choose  again.  I  suppose 
this  state  of  things  has  its  advantages.  They  do 
not  love  so  deeply  or  intellectually  as  we  do,  con- 
sequently they  separate  with  greater  case.  Dis- 
appointment does  not  rebound  on  them  with  so 
crushing  an  effect,  and  I  believe  for  that  very  rea- 
son they  make  the  more  faithful  wives  and  hus- 
bands of  the  two.  They  expect  little,  and  little 
satisfies  them ;  and  they  have  to  work  and  strug- 
gle to  procure  the  necessaries  of  life.  There  is  no 
time  left  to  make  the  worst  of  their  domestic 
troubles. 

Yet  we  cannot  take  up  the  daily  papers,  and 
read  of  the  many  crimes  that  are  committed 
through  jealousy,  without  feeling  that  some  of 


the  class  alluded  to  must  be  more  sensitive  tlia; 
others.     A  geiitleninn  will  suspect  his  wife  (if  in. 
fidelity,  and  break  his  heart  over  it  for  ycuis,ir,.  I 
ing   to  hoodwink  himself  and   tread  down  ui.. 
worthy  doubts,  before  he  will  d:  ^  liis  dinhoiionj  I 
name  into  the  light  of  day,  and  seek  repaiati.j; 
at  the  hands  of  law ;  but  a  husband  of  tlic  loM^r  | 
orders  has  no  such  delicate  consideration.    Jloa; 
of  them  think  a  good  beating  sufficient  coiiiiien.-a.  I 
tion  for  their  wrongs ;  but  a  few,  under  the  swisi.  | 
of  outraged   honor  which  they  expericiico,  bt; 
cannot  define,  feel  that  nothing  short  of  blood  wii: 
satisfy  them,  and  quietly  cut  their  wives'  throat:  | 
from  car  to  ear.    I  have  always  had  a  sort  v.' ; ' 
miration   for  these  last-named  criminuls,    Tlii- 
must  have  valued  what  they  destroy  at  tliu  ri-i  | 
of,   and   often   in   conjunction   with,   their  m: 
Uvcfl.     The  act  may  be  brutal,  but  it  is  maiih-. 

Beneath  the  list  of  ignorance  and  buttlnni. 
see  the  powers  of  mastery  and  justice,  and  t: 
hatred  of  deceit  and  vice,  which  in  an  eiliicaii: 
mind  would  have  brought  forth  such  difllut:! 
fruits.  But,  above  all,  we  recognize  the  power  ;:'| 
sentiment. 

Joel  Cray  was  one  of  these  men — a  raro  ti 
stance  of  sensibility  in  a  cIjss  whose  whole  liJ 
and  nurture  is  against  the  possession  of  such  J 
feeling.    From  a  boy  he  had  been  taught  to  kil 
upon  his  cousin  Myra  as  his  future  wife;ai;| 
when  he  believed  that  Muiravcn  had  betrayed  ji; 
deserted  her,  his  rage  and  indignation  kucwil 
bounds.    For  a  while  he  thought  that  he  ir,t:;| 
see  her  righted  ;  that  it  was  impossible  that  ar 
man  who  had  loved  Myra  in  ever  so  transicM  ;| 
manner— Myra  so  delicate  and  pretty,  and  (lorl 
pared  with  the  other  girls  of  Priestley)  so  rcCneJ 
who  in  Joel's  rough  sight  appeared  almost  as  ak; 
— could  be  satisfied  to  live  without  searching!;; 
out  again.    But,  as  time  went  on,  and  no  p'.:| 
tent  seducer  appeared  upon  the  scone,  his  cJ 
feelings  for  her  regained  the  ascendency,  and  i 
again  began  to  look  upon  her  as  one  who  wirm 
be  his  wife.     He  did  not  mind  the  first  rtk^ 
she  gave  him.     lie  had  faith  in  the  charm  ulii:: 
being  replaced  in  the  position  of  respcclabiy 
must  hold  for  every  woman,  and  believed  that,  J 
soon  as  she  had  got  the  better  of  her  illucsj,  i^ 
advisability  of  his  proposal  would  strike  her  ii 
its  true  light.    He  had  not  the  least  idea  tii 
she  was  dying ;  and  her  subsequent  death  secni 
to  kill  at  one  blow  both  his  ambitions.    IleM'J 
neither  make  her  his  wife,  nor  see  her  made  iJ 
wife  of  the  man  who  had  deserted  her.   Atf 
there  seemed  to  him  but  one  thing  lift  to i 
done — to  exchange  the  blows  alluded  to  abti 


-t 


JOEL  CRAY  AS  AN  AVENGER. 


140 


ulth  'lie   author  of    nil   this   niiafortunc,   even 
iliough  thoy  wore  to  death. 

"  If  I  can  only  sec  that  there  'Amilton,"  he 
ihiaks  savagely,  as  he  journey:!  from  Priestley, 
"and  break  his  donned  head  for  him,  I  shall 
bkle,  perhaps,  a  bit  quieter.  Whenever  I  meets 
lilin,  though,  and  wherever  it  may  be,  it  will  bo  a 
niii(l-up  tight  between  us  And  if  he  won't  own 
Ills  child  and  provide  for  it  as  a  gentleman  should, 
nhy  there'll  be  another.  And  small  satisfaction, 
tiio  with  ray  poor  girl  a-lyiug  cold  in  the  church- 
v.ini."  And  here,  hurried  by  retrospectioa  be- 
vond  all  bounds  of  propriety,  ho  begins  to  call 
Jiwii  the  curse  of  the  Almighty  upon  the  luck- 
less head  of  his  unknown  enemy. 

lie  quits  Priestley  at  tho  very  time  that  Eric 
Koir  is  trying  to  drown  his  disappointment  by  run- 
ning over  the  United  States  with  his  friend  Charley 
Ilolraef,  until  the  fatal  letter  annoimcing  his  elder 
lirolher's  death  shall  call  him  back  to  England. 
Ilad  it  not  been  so,  there  would  have  been  small 
1  ohanca  of  his  being  encountered  in  the  streets  of 
London  during  the  shooting-season  by  our  poor 
friend  Joel.  But  what  should  a  country  lout 
know  of  such  matters  ?  It  is  to  London  that  he 
works  his  way,  feeling  assured  that  in  that  em- 
porium of  wealth  and  fashion  and  luxury,  sooner 
or  later,  he  must  meet  his  rival.  So  far  he  has 
reason,  and  by  slow  degrees  he  reaches  it,  jour- 
neying from  farm  to  farm,  with  a  day's  job  hero 
and  a  day's  job  there,  until  he  has  gained  the  site 
of  a  suburban  railway,  on  which  he  gets  cmploy- 
I  ment  as  a  porter. 

Here,  seeing  no  means  of  bettering  himself, 
I  he  rests  quietly  for  several  months,  more  resigned 
and  disposed  to  take  interest  in  life  again,  perhaps, 
but  still  with  that  one  idea  firmly  fixed  in  his 
mind,  and  eagerly  scanning  the  features  or  follow- 
ing the  footsteps  of  any  one  whose  face  or  figure 
reminds  him,  in  ever  so  small  a  degree,  of  the 
hated  '"Amilton."     Perhaps  ic  is  fortunate  for 
I  Joel's  chances  of  retaining  his  situation  that  he 
I  cannot  read,  else  the  times  he  would  have  been  se- 
duced from  his  allegiance  by  seeing  the  mystic 
I  name  upon  a  hat-box,  or  a  portmanteau,  would 
have  !:een  without  number.    How  many  Ilamil- 
tons  journeyed  up  and  down  that  line,  I  wonder, 
land  embarked  or  disembarked  at  that  station 
I  during  the  three  months  Joel  Cray  was  porter 
I  there  ?    But  personal  characteristics  were  all  the 
I  guides  ha  followed  after,  and  these  were  often 
I  sulRcient  to  insure  him  a  reprimand.     At  last  he 
I  heard  of  a  situation  in  the  West  End  of  Lon- 
Idoii,  and  resigned  half  his  wages  to  incrcaso  his 
I  chance  of  meeting  Muiraven. 


But  Muir.aven  spent  his  Christmas  and  his 
spring  at  Derwiek  Castle,  and  diil  not  leave  hon« 
again  until  ho  went  to  Olottonbury  and  met  the 
Mordaunts. 

Meanwhile  poor  Joel,  much  dishearteiiod  at 
repeated  failures,  but  with  no  intention  of  giving 
in,  searched  for  him  high  and  low,  and  kept  his 
wrath  boiling,  all  ready  for  him  when  they 
xhouhl  meet,  by  a  nightly  recapitulation  of  his 
wrongs. 

Muiraven  leaves  Priestley,  and  embarks  for 
India.     The  unfortunate  avenger  is  again  baflled. 

Tho  season  passes,  and  ho  has  ascertained 
nothing.  Among  tho  " '  Amiltons  "  he  has  met  or 
heard  of  he  can  trace  no  member  answering  to 
the  description  of  Myra's  betrayer.  Many  are 
tall  and  fair,  and  many  tall  and  dark ;  but  the 
white  skin,  and  the  blue  eyes,  and  tho  dark  hair, 
come  not,  and  the  poor,  honest,  faithful  heart 
begins  to  show  signs  of  weariness.  "  Who 
knows  ?  "  so  he  argues — for  two  years  and  more 
Myra  had  hoard  nothing  of  him — "  perhaps  he 
may  have  died  in  the  interim.  Oh,  if  he  could 
only  ascertain  that  ho  had  !  " 

But  this  search  is  as  futile  as  tho  first.  By 
degrees  Joel  confides  his  sorrow  and  his  design 
to  others — it  is  so  hard  to  suiTer  all  by  one's  self, 
and  his  acquaintances  are  eager  to  assist  him,  for 
there  is  something  irresistibly  exciting  in  a  hue- 
and-cry  :  but  their  efforts,  though  well  meant, 
fall  to  tho  ground,  and  hope  and  courage  begin 
to  slink  away  together.  During  this  year  Joel 
passes  through  the  various  phases  of  pot-boy, 
bottle-cleaner,  and  warehouse  porter,  until  he 
has  worked  his  way  down  to  tho  Docks,  where 
his  fine -built,  muscular  frame  and  capabilities  of 
endurance  make  him  rather  a  valuable  acquisition. 
Ho  is  still  in  this  position  when  Lord  Muiravon 
returns  from  tho  East  I  <dies. 

Muiravon  left  Fen  Court  in  a  strangely  un- 
settled state  of  mind.  lie  did  not  know  if  he 
weru  happier  or  more  miserable  for  the  discovery 
ho  had  made.  After  an  awkward  and  unsatis- 
factory manner,  ho  had  cleared  himself  in  Irene's 
eyes,  and  received  the  assurance  of  her  forgive- 
ness ;  but  how  was  his  position  bettered  by  the 
circumstance  ?  Love  makes  us  so  unreasonable. 
A  twelvemonth  ago  ho  would  have  been  ready  to 
aflSrm  that  he  could  boar  any  thing  for  the  knowl- 
edge that  the  girl  whoso  affection  he  had  been 
compelled  to  resign  did  not  utterly  despise  him. 
Now  he  knows  that  it  is  true,  and  thinks  the 
truth  but  an  aggravation  of  tho  insurmountable 
barriers  that  Fate  has  raised  between  them. 


J 


150 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


'•i 


m 


i-ii!-;,' 


hf! 


M 


m 


'i%-\ 


"  If  I  wore  only  a  worse  fellow  than  I  am,"  lie 
thinks  iinpiUlcntly,  as  hu  travels  back  to  town — 
"  if  I  were  as  careless  as  half  the  fellowa  that  I 
meet,  I  ahouUl  scatter  every  obstacle  to  the  wind, 
and  make  myself  happy  in  my  own  way ;  but  it 
would  break  dad's  heart ;  and  on  the  top  of 
losing  dear  old  Bob,  too  ! " 

The  question,  whether  the  woman  by  moims 
of  whom  he  would  like  to  be  "  happy  in  his  own 
way  "  would  aid  and  abet  his  unholy  wishes  docs 
not  enter  into  his  calculations  just  then.  Had 
there  been  any  probability  of  their  fuKillnicnt,  she 
might  have  done  so,  and  Lord  Muiraven  would 
have  found  his  level.  But  it  flatters  him  to 
think  that  Irene's,  vi'-'.uc  and  respectability  are 
the  magnanimous  gifts  of  his  powers  of  self-con- 
trol, lie  forgets  that  she  even  forbade  his  speak- 
ing to  her  on  the  subject,  and  feels  quite  like  Sir 
Galahad,  or  St.  Anthony,  or  anybody  else  who 
was  particularly  good  at  resisting  temptation 
(Heaven  knows,  a  place  in  the  Calendar  is  small 
enough  reward  for  so  rare  a  virtue ! ),  as  he 
reviews  the  circumstances  of  his  visit,  and  will- 
fully consigns  poor  old  Colonel  Mordaunt  to  the 
realms  of  eternal  frizzling. 

IIow  the  Shadows  of  tlic  Past  rise  up  to  mock 
him  now,  and  tell  him  that,  were  his  wildest 
speculations  realized,  there  would  still  remain  an 
obstacle  to  his  asking  any  woman  to  become  his 
wife !  How  ho  curses  that  obstacle  and  his  own 
folly,  as  he  dashes  onward  to  the  metropolis !  and 
how  many  of  hit,  fellow-passengers  that  day  may 
not — had  they  indulged  them — have  had  similar 
thoughts  to  his !  It  is  the  misfortune  cf  this 
miserable,  purblind  existence  that  we  must  either 
loiter  timidly  along  the  road  of  life,  permitting 
ourselves  to  bo  outdistanced  at  each  step,  or  rush 
onward  with  the  ruck  pell-mell,  helter-skelter, 
stumbling  over  a  stone  here,  rushing  headlong 
against  a  dead-wall  there — on,  on,  with  scarce  a 
thought  to  what  we  have  left  behind  us,  and  no 
knowledge  as  to  what  lies  before — straining,  pi.  sh- 
ing,  striving,  wrestling — and  the  devil  take  the 
hindmost ! 

What  wonder  if  we  oftener  fall  than  stand, 
and  that  the  aforesaid  gentleman  docs  take  a 
pretty  considerable  number  of  us  ! 

Muiraven  cannot  bear  the  presence  of  that 
Nemesis ;  and  the  endeavor  to  outwit  it  drives 
him  wild  for  a  few  days  :  after  which  he  runs  up 
to  Scotland,  startling  Lord  Norham  with  his 
eccentric  behavior,  until  the  time  arrives  for 
him  to  cross  the  Channel  with  his  cousin  Strat- 
ford and  meet  the  outward-bound  steamer  at 
Brindisl.     The  voyage  does  him  good.     There  is 


no  panacea  for  di.-fpersing  miserable  thought. 
like  lots  of  bu.stle  and  moving  about — and  it  i, 
very  diiricult  to  be  lovesick  in  the  company  ol'  a 
set  of  excellent  fellows  who  will  not  leave  yoi; 
for  a  moment  to  yourself,  but  keep  you  smokiiiL.', 
drinking,  laughing,  and  cluil!lng,  liom  n.oiuii,.' 
till  night.  There  are  times,  of  course,  when  ih.. 
remembrance  of  Irene  comes  back  to  him— in 
his  berth,  at  night,  for  in.stance  ;  but  Muiraven ;, 
no  Bcntimcntalist :  he  loves  her  dearly,  but  jj. 
feels  more  disposed  to  curse  than  cry  when !,' 
remembers  her  —  although  the  only  thing  Lv 
curses  is  his  own  fate  and  hers.  He  rcadic; 
Uengal  in  safety,  and  for  the  next  few  momii- 
his  cousin  and  he  are  up-oountry,  "  i)ig-siiik- 
ing,"  and  made  much  of  among  those  regihicct- 
with  the  members  of  which  they  are  aequaiutii. 
During  his  absence,  Muiraven  hears  no  ni'u; 
except  such  as  is  connected  with  his  own  faniily. 
His  brother  is  married  (it  was  a  great  cause  ol 
olTensc  to  the  Robertson  family  that  he  did  noi 
remain  in  J!ugland  till  the  important  ceremony 
was  over)  and  his  old  father  feels  lonely  witlioj! 
Cecil,  and  wants  his  eldest  son  back  again.  Muir- 
aveu  also  beginning  to  feel  rather  homesick,  mil, 
as  though  he  had  had  enough  of  India,  Christma- 
finds  him  once  more  at  Berwick  Castle:  paKt 
and  thinner,  perhaps,  than  he  looked  on  leavii,: 
England  ;  but  the  heat  of  the  climate  of  lieiip! 
is  more  than  sufficient  to  account  for  such  triilini 
changes.  lie  arrives  just  in  time  for  the  anni- 
versary ;  and  a  week  afterward  he  wants  to  rcturs 
to  London,  being  anxious  (so  he  says)  about  tW 
fate  of  certain  valuables  which  he  purchased  in 
Calcutta  months  ago,  and  sent  home  round  tte  | 
Cape.  Lord  Norham  suggests  that  his  agent  will 
do  all  that  is  necessary  concerning  them ;  but  I 
Muiraven  considers  it  absolutely  important  tl;:t 
he  should  be  on  the  spot  himself.  The  fact  i>. 
he  is  hankering  after  news  of  Irene  again ;  tht 
dead  silence  of  the  last  sis  months  rcspectiK  | 
her  begins  to  oppress  him  like  some  hideou- 
nightmare ;  the  false  excitement  is  over,  and  tht  I 
ruling  passion  regains  its  ascendency.  What  if 
any  thing  should  have  happened  to  her  in  his  al- 
sence  ?  Notwithstanding  her  prohibition  to  tb;  I 
contrary,  he  sent  her  a  note  on  his  return  to 
England,  simply  telling  the  fact,  and  expressing  a 
hope  that  they  might  soon  meet  again;  but  to  | 
this  letter  he  has  received  no  answer.  Jlcbi- 
comes  restlessly  impatient  to  hear  something- 1 
any  thing,  and  trusts  to  the  dispatch  of  a  cargo  of 
Indian  and  Chinese  toys,  which  he  has  brouglit  I 
homo  for  Tommy,  to  break  again  the  ice  between 
them.    It  is  this  hope  that  brings  him  up  to 


MEETINO  OX  THE  DOCKS. 


151 


Lonilon,  detcrmiiK'il   to  AC\i  uftor  ihu  iinivul  of 
thi'do  keys  to  Iroiic'd  lioart  liiiiiself. 

They  are  all  safo  but  one — the  very  ea^e  wliieh 
he  tliinkd  moat  of,  which  is  craiuiiied  to  tlic  lid 
with  those  wonderful  sky-bluo  elepliauts,  aud 
cvimson  horses,  and  spotted  dogs,  which  the  na- 
livei  of  Surat  turn  and  color,  generation  after 
(generation,  without  entertaining,  apparently,  the 
slightest  doubt  of  their  fidelity  to  Nature.  It  was 
consigned,  among  many  others,  to  the  care  of  a  C.iU 
cutta  ogent  for  s'lipment  and  address  ;  and  Muir- 
aven  is  at  first  almost  afraid  that  it  has  been  left 
liehiiid.  His  cousin  Stratford  suggests  that  they 
shall  go  down  to  the  Docks  aud  inquire  after  it 
themselves, 

"Queer  place  the  Docks,  Muiraveu !  Have 
you  ever  been  there  ?  It's  quite  a  new  sensation,  I 
assure  you,  to  sec  the  heaps  of  bales  and  casks 
aaJ  cases,  and  to  hear  all  the  row  that  goes  on 
among  them.  Let's  go,  if  you've  got  nothing  else 
to  do,  this  morning.  I  know  tliat  it'll  amuse 
you." 

And  so  they  visit  the  Docks  in  company. 
There  is  no  trouble  about  the  missing  case.    It 
tu-ns  up  almosi  as  soon  as  they  mention  it,  and 
[irovcs  to  have  come  to  no  worse  grief  than 
having  its  direction  obliterated  by  the  leakage  of 
a  barrel  of  tar.     Ho,  having  had  their  minds  set 
at  rest  with  respect  to  Tommy's  possessions, 
iluiraven  and    Stratford   link    arms  and   stroll 
through  the  Docks  together,  T/atching  the  busi- 
ness going  on  around  them  with  keen  interest. 
They  look  rather  singular  and  out  cf  place,  these 
two  fashionably-dressed  and  aristocratic  young 
men,  among  the  rough  sailors  and  porters,  the 
warchouse-racn,  negroes,  and   foreigners  of   all 
descriptions  that  crowd  the  Docks.     Many  looks 
arc  directed  after  them  as  they  pass  by,  and 
many  remarks,  not   all   complimentary  to  their 
[rank,  are  made  as  soon  as  they  are  considered 
lout  of  hearing.    But  as  they  reach  a  point  which 
I  seems  devoted  to  the  stowage  of  bales  of  cotton 
lor  some  such  goods,  a  rough-looking  young  fel- 
lioff,  a  porter,  apparently,  who  has  a  hugo  bale 
I  hoisted  on  to  his  shoulders  by  a  companion,  with 
laa  exclamation  of  surprise  lets  it  roll  backward 
Ito  the  earth  again,  and  stepping  forward  directly 
[blocks  their  pathway. 

"  Xow,  my  good  fellow ! "  says  Muiraven,  carc- 
llessly,  as  though  to  warn  him  that  he  is  intrud- 
ling. 

"What  are  ycr  artcr?"  remonstrates  the 
lothcr  workman,  who  has  been  knocked  over  by 
Ithe  receding  bale. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  says  Joel  Cray,  address- 


ing Muiraven  (tor  Joel,  of  cour.-c,  it  is),  "  but,  if 
I  don't  mistake,  you  gofS  by  the  name  of 
'  'Amiltim.'  " 

Tills  is  by  no  moans  the  grandilixiucnt  appeal 
by  which  he  has  often  dreamed  of,  figuratively 
speaking,  knocking  his  adver.saiy  over  befoie  he 
goes  in  without  any  figure  of  speech  at  all,  and 
"  settles  his  hash  for  him." 

Hut  how  seldom  are  events  which  we  have 
dreamed  of  fulfilled  in  their  proper  course ! 

That  man  (or  woman)  that  jilted  us!  With 
what  a  torrent  of  fiery  elo(iuence  did  we  intend 
to  overwhelm  them  for  their  perfidy  when  first 
we  mot  them,  face  to  face  ;  and  how  weakly,  in 
reality,  do  we  accept  their  prolVered  hand,  aud 
express  a  hope  we  sec  theiu  well !  Our  ravint,'s 
are  mostly  confined  to  our  four-posters.  This 
prosaic  nineteenth  century  affords  us  so  few  op- 
portunities of  showing  oH'  our  rhetorieiil  powers  1 

On  Joel's  face,  although  it  U  January,  and  Uj 
is  standing  in  the  teeth  of  a  cold  north  wind,  the 
sweat  has  risen  ;  and  the  hand  he  Jares  not  raise 
hangs  clinched  by  his  side.  Still  he  is  a  servant 
in  a  public  place,  surrounded  by  spectators — and 
he  may  be  mistaken  !  AVliich  facts  flash  through 
his  mind  in  a  moment,  and  keep  him  quiescent  in 
his  rival's  path,  looking  not  nnieh  more  danger- 
ous than  a:)y  other  impatient,  half-doubting  man 
might  bo. 

"  As  sure  as  I  live,''  he  repeats,  somewhat 
huskily,  "  you  goes  by  the  name  of  '  'Amiltou,' 
sir !  " 

"  Is  he  drunk  ?  "  says  Muiraven,  appealing  to 
the  by-standers.  "  It's  rather  early  in  the  day  for 
it.     Stand  out  of  my  way — will  you  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  with  the  gentleman  ?  " 
demands  his  fellow-workman. 

^'■Satisfaction!''''  roars  Joel,  nettled  by  the 
manner  of  his  adversary  into  showing  something 
like  the  rage  he  feels.  "  You're  the  man,  sir !  It's 
no  use  your  denying  of  it,  I've  searched  for  you 
high  and  low,  and  now  I've  found  you,  you  don't 
go  without  ansv/cring  to  mc  for  her  ruin.  You 
may  be  a  gentleman,  but  you  haven't  acted  like 
one ;  and  I'll  have  my  revenge  on  you,  or  die  foi- 
it!" 

A  crowd  has  collected  round  them  now,  and 
things  begin  to  look  rather  unpleasant. 

"  We're  going  to  have  a  row,"  says  Stratford, 
gleefully,  as  he  prepares  to  take  ofl'his  coat. 

"  Nonsense,  Stratford  !  The  fellow's  drunk, 
or  mad.  I  cannot  have  you  mixed  up  with  a 
crew  like  this. — If  you  don't  move  out  of  my  way 
and  stc^,  your  infernal  insolence,"  he  continues  tc 
Joel  Cray,  "  I'll  hand  you  over  to  a  policeman." 


{\ 


.i 


I 


152 


NO  INTF.^JTIONS." 


^i 


VL 


•  i 


r        I     1  f 


"  I  am  not  insolent — I  only  tell  you  the  truth, 
ond  the  whole  world  mny  know  It.  Vour  name 
is  "Amilton.'  You  ruined  a  poor  girl,  under  a 
promise  of  marringp,  nnd  left  her  and  her  child 
to  perish  of  grief  and  hunger !  And,  as  sure  as 
there's  a  Ood  in  heaven,  I'll  make  you  answer  for 
your  wickedness  toward  'cm  I " 

"  Ugh ! "  groans  the  surrounding  crowd  of 
navvies,  always  ready,  at  the  least  excuse,  to 
take  part  against  tho  "  bloated  haireatocracy." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 
You  must  have  mistaken  me  for  some  ono  else," 
replies  Muirarcn,  who  cannot  resist  refuting  such 
an  accusation. 

"  Surely  you  arc  not  going  to  parley  with  the 
man !  "  interposes  Strafford. 

"  You  don't  know  of  such  a  place  as  Hoxford, 
maybe  ?  "  shouts  Joel,  vith  an  inflamed  counte- 
nance, and  a  clinched  fist,  this  time  brought  well 
to  the  front — "  nor  of  such  a  Tillage  as  Frcttcr- 
ley  ? — nor  you've  never  heard  tell  of  such  a  girl  as 
Myra  Cray  ? — Ah !  I  thought  I'd  moke  you  re- 
member!" as  Muiraven,  turning  deadly  white, 
takes  a  step  backward.  "  Let  go,  mates — let  me 
have  at  him,  the  d — d  thief,  who  took  the  gal 
from  mo  first,  and  ruined  her  afterward  ! " 

But  they  hold  him  back,  three  or  four  of  them 
at  a  time,  fearing  the  consequences  of  any  thing 
like  per.sonal  violence, 

"  Muiraven,  speak  to  him ! — What  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  "  says  his  cousin,  impatiently,  as  he  per- 
ceives his  consternation. 

"  I  cannot,"  he  replies  at  first ;  and  then,  as 
though  fighting  with  himself,  he  stands  upiight 
and  confronts  Joel  boldly. 

"  What  have  you  to  tell  me  of  Myra  Cray  ? — 
Where  is  she  ? — What  does  she  want  of  me  ? — 
Why  has  she  kept  her  hiding-place  a  secret  for 
so  long  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you  never  take  tho  trouble  to  look 
after  her  ?  "  retorts  Joel.  "  Why  did  you  leave 
her  to  die  of  a  broken  heart  ?    Answer  me  that ! " 

"  To  die  1  Is  she  dead  ?  "  he  says,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Ay  I  she's  out  of  your  clutches — you  needn't 
bo  afraid  of  that,  mister — nor  will  ever  be  in 
them  again,  poor  lass !  And  there's  nothing  re- 
mains to  be  done  now,  but  to  take  my  satisfaction 
out  of  you." 

"  And  how  do  you  propose  to  take  it  ?  Do  you 
wish  to  fight  me  ?  "  demands  Muiraven,  calmly. 

"  Better  not,  mate ! "  says  one  of  his  comrades, 
in  a  whisper. 

"  Bleed  him ! "  suggests  another,  in  the  same 
tone. 


As  for  Joel,  the  quiet  question  takes  him  n 
a  disadvantage,  lie  doesn't  know  what  to  nmin 
of  it. 

"When  a  fellow's  bin  wronged,"  he  bcgin^ 
awkwardly — 

"  IIo  demands  satisfaction,"  continues  Miiir. 
aven.  "  I  quite  agree  with  you.  That  idea  bolil* 
good  in  my  class  as  much  as  in  yours.  Itut  vr,i; 
seem  to  know  very  little  more  than  the  facta  of 
this  case.  Suppose  I  can  prove  to  you  that  the 
poor  girl  you  speak  of  wos  not  wronged  by  me— 
what  then?" 

"  You've  bin  a  deal  too  'asty,"  whispers  ont 
of  his  friends. 

"But  your  name's  "Amilton' — ain't  il>" 
says  Joel,  mistily. 

"  It  is  one  of  my  names.  But  that  is  nothirc 
to  the  purpose.  Far  from  shirking  inquiry,  I  oin 
very  anxious  to  hear  all  you  can  tell  mo  about 
Myra  Cray.  When  can  you  come  home  with  n,c; 
Now  ? " 

"  Muiraven  !  in  Heaven's  name — is  this  one  of 
your  infernal  little  scrapes?  "  says  Stratford. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  hold  your  tongue  for  ih 
present,  and  you  shall  know  all. — Is  there  arij 
reason  why  this  man  should  not  accompany  mc  i 
my  place  of  residence  ?  "  continues  Muiraven,  aL 
dressing  one  of  the  by-standers. 

"  lie  can  go  well  enough,  if  he  likes  to.  IIi'- 1 
only  here  by  the  job." 

"  Will  you  come,  then  ? "  to  Joel. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  rclurr.- 1 
Joel,  sheepishly.  "  'Tain't  what  I  call  satisfactio:  | 
to  be  going  'ome  with  a  gentleman." 

"  Come  with  mc  first,  and  then,  if  I  don't  givi  | 
you  entire  satisfaction  with  respect  to  this  bu;:- 
ncss,  we  will  fight  it  out  your  own  way  al'toi- 
ward." 

"  Gentleman  can't  say  fairer  than  that,"  is  tb 
verdict  of  the  crowd.  So  Joel  Cray,  shamefacc!- 
ly  enough,  and  feeling  as  though  all  his  grar.i 
schemes  for  revenge  had  melted  into  thin  air,  f'- 
lows  Muiraven  and  Stratford  out  of  the  Dock- 1 
while  his  companions  adjourn  to  drink  the  bcalii;  | 
of  his  enemy  in  the  nearest  public-house. 

"  Where  are  j'ou  going  to  take  him?  "  demanc- 
Stratford,  as  a  couple  of  hansoms  obey  his  cousic- 
whistle. 

"To  Saville  Moxon's.  You  must  come  viill 
•'.?,  Ilal.  I  have  been  living  under  a  mask  fortl.  I 
last  five  years;  but  it  is  time  I  should  be  true  a;  | 
last." 

"  True  at  last ! 
As  if  all  the  world  didn't  know — " 

"Hush,   Hal!  — J'OU    pain  me.     The  wor!'-! 


What  humbug,  MuirftTCt!| 


EXPLANATION  AND  SETTLEMENT. 


153 


ngcd,"  he  begins, 


ity,"  whiitpcrs  ont 


llton'— ain't  it»" 


;  he  UkcB  to.    IK'i 


umbug,  MuirftTcn. 
mo.     The  TvorV.I 


knon'8  as  much  about  luo  ns  it  docs  of  cvory  one 

uiic." 

Saviile  Moxon — now  a  barriKtor,  wlio  1ii\h  iHh- 
tiDgiiishod  himself  on  more  tlmn  one  occasion — 
lives  in  the  Temple.  Fifteen  minutes  bring  tliem 
to  \\\A  chambers,  where  tlioy  find  him  hard  at 
worlt  among  hi.s  papers. 

"  I  feel  beastly  awkward,"  says  Muliavcn,  with 
a  con.sciou8  laugh,  as  Moxon  U  eager  to  learn  the 
reason  of  their  appearance  in  8ueh  strange  com- 
pany ;  "  but  I've  got  a  confessicm  to  make,  Mox- 
on, nnd  the  sooner  it's  over  the  better, — Now,  my 
good  follow,  pass  on." 

This  last  request  is  addressed  to  Joel,  who, 
half  doubting  whether  he  shall  make  his  cause 
^'ood  after  all,  recapitulates,  in  his  rough  manner, 
the  wliole  history  of  Myra's  return  to  Priestley — 
the  birth  of  her  child — her  aimless  searches  after 
her  betrayer — and,  lastly,  her  imexpeeted  death. 

Muiravcn  starts  slightly,  and  changes  color  as 
the  ciiild  is  mentioned ;  but  otherwise  ho  hears 
the  sad  story  through  unmoved.  The  other  two 
men  sit  by  iu  silence,  wailing  his  leave  to  express 
tlieir  astonishment  at  the  intelligence. 

"Poor  Myra!"  says  Muiraven,  thoughtfully, 
as  Joel,  whose  voice  has  been  rather  shaljy  tow- 
ard the  end,  brinp;8  his  talc  to  a  conclusion. 
"I  don't  wonder  you  thought  badly  of  me,  my 
friend ;  but  there  is  something  to  be  said  on  both 
sides.    I  never  wronged  your  cousin — " 

"  You  say  that  to  my  face !  "  commences  Joel, 
Ills  wrath  all  ready  to  boil  over  again  at  such  a 
supposition. 

"  Stay  1  Yes — I  repeat  it.  The  pcr.son  whom 
I  most  wronged  in  the  transaction  was  myself. — 
Her  name  was  not  Myra  Cray,  but  Myra  Keir. 
Slic  was  mi/  wife." 

"  Your  wife  !  "  repeats  Joel,  staring  vacantly. 

"  Good  God  1 "  exclaims  Saviile  Moxon. 

"  Muiraven  I  are  you  mad  ?  "  says  Stratford. 

"  My  dear  fellows,  do  you  think  Pd  say  a  tiling 
of  this  kind  for  the  mere  purpose  of  sneaking  out 
of  a  scrape  ?  You  know  what  our  ideas  are  on 
the  subject.  What  man  of  the  world  would 
blame,  very  deeply,  a  youthful  liaison  between  a 
college  freshman  and  a  pretty  bar-maid  ?  But 
this  was  no  passing  frailty  of  mine,  I  met  this 
girl,  formed  an  attachment  for  her,  brought  her 
up  to  London,  married  her  privately  in  the  old 
church  of  St.  Sepulchre,  and  settled  her  at  Fret- 
terley,  whence  she — she — left  mey 

And  Muiraven,  leaning  back  against  the  man- 
tel-piece. Bets  his  teeth  at  that  remembrance,  and 
looks  sternly  down  upon  the  hearth-rug,  although 
It  all  happened  so  many  years  ago. 


"  She  left  you — yes,"  cries  Joel,  "  but  not  bo- 
foie  you  had  near  broke  her  jwor  'art  with  your 
uiikiiidiies.-i,  m\  And  nhe  cuiue  back,  poor  l.iiiib, 
to  her  own  people  and  her  own  'oii<e,  and  died 
there,  like  a  dog  in  a  ditch." 

"  She  left  file  Iiouse  I  had  i)rovi(le<l  f<)r  her 
with  —  wiih — SDiiio  one  else,"  says  Muiraven, 
frowiiiii).'. 

"She  left  it  with  me,  sir,  her  own  cousin,  who 
wouldn't  have  hurt  a  hair  of  her  'ead.  I  searched 
for  her  long,  and  I  found  her  un'appy  and  wretch- 
ed, and  I  persuaded  of  her  to  come  back  'omo  with 
me  ;  tliinkiiig  as  you  had  wronged  hor,  for  she 
never  said  a  word  of  her  being  married,  poor  lasw, 
fr(Hn  that  day  to  the  day  of  her  deulli." 

"  She  had  sworn  to  me  she  would  not,  know- 
ing how  fatal  the  consequences  might  be  of  such 
a  confession.  Now,  Moxon,  you  know  all.  Hud 
my  wife  remained  with  me,  I  might  pc.'rhups  h.»vo 
siiiniMoiied  up  courage  before  now  to  tell  my 
father  tlio  truth;  but  she  left  me — as  I  thought 
to  disgi-ai'c  herself — and  though  I  searched  for 
her  in  every  direction,  I  was  unable  to  obtain  any 
clew  to  her  destinati<m.  Tlu)ii  I  went  abroad — 
you  reuieiiiber  the  time — and  hoped  to  forget  it 
all,  but  the  memory  has  d  "  g  to  me  'ike  a  curso 
ever  since,  until  I  met  this  fellow  to-day  in  tlio 
Docks.  Else  I  might  have  gone  on  to  all  eterni- 
ty, considering  myself  still  fettered  by  this  early 
mhalliancc. — And  the  child  died  too,  you  say," 
turning  again  to  Joel ;  "  was  it  a  boy  ?  " 

"  The  child  ain't  dead  no  more  than  you  are," 
replies  Joel,  gruffly,  for  ho  has  been  cheated  out 
of  his  revenge,  and  no  one  seems  the  better  for 
it.  "  He's  a  strong  chap  of  four  year  old,  all 
alive  and  kicking,  and  if  you're  the  gentleman 
you  pretend  to  be,  you'll  provide  for  him  as  a 
gentleman  should." 

"  Alive  !  Good  Heavens !  and  four  years 
old !  How  this  complicates  matters  I — Moxon, 
that  child  is  my  legitimate  heir." 

"  Of  course  he  is,  if  you  were  married.  But 
where  is  he  ?  that's  the  next  thing  to  ascertain. 
— With  your  family,  eh  ?  "  turning  to  Joel. 

"No,  ho  ain't  bin  along  of  'em  since  his 
mother's  death,  for  there  was  a  lady  at  Priestley 
— the  only  ereetur  as  was  good  to  my  poor  lass 
when  she  lay  dyin'  —  and  she  was  real  kind, 
God  bless  'er  ;  and  the  poor  gal,  she  died  on  her 
bosom,  as  they  tell  mo ;  and  afterward  Mrs.  Mor- 
daunt — that  was  the  lady — she  took  Tommy  along 
with  her  up  to  the  Court,  and — " 

"  Tommy !  The  Court !  Good  God  !  do  you 
mean  to  tell  mo  that  the  boy  you  speak  of,  Myra 
Cray's  child,  was    adopted   by   Mi-s.    Mordaunt 


154 


"NO   INTENTION'S." 


'  i! ', 


'  i 


m  .\ 


m 


of  Fon  Comt,  tlio  wile  of  Coloiul  Moiilauiit, 
of—" 

"  In  cotiiHi',  tliu  colonel'n  liul)' ;  uml  hlio  iiiiikuH 
a  deal  of  him,  too,  so  llicy  siiy.  Hut  Htill,  if  lic'a 
yourn,  t^ir,  you're  tlio  jtiopcr  pcMon  to  looli  iil'tcr 
liliii,  and  I  Hlui'u't  cull  it  juHticc  if  you  don't." 

"Stratford,  you  know  the  box  of  toya  wu  wont 
nfttr  to-duy  t " 

"  That  you  kicki'd  up  such  ii  Hhindy  uliout. 
Yes." 

"It  U  for  timt  child  thiit  1  brought  thi'Ui 
lionic." 

"  Did  you  know  of  (hi;*  then  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word  ;  but  I  huvo  Htayed  with  the 
Morduunta,  and  Been  him.  And  to  think  he 
Bhould  be  my  own.     IIow  extraordinary  !  " 

"  Deuced  inconvenient,  I  should  say.  AVhiit 
do  you  mean  to  do  next  ?  " 

"  Go  down  to  I'riestley  at  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity.— You'll  come  with  me,  Hid  t  " 

"Detter  take  Moxon,  ho  may  be  of  use.  I'm 
none." 

Then  Moxon  n;?roc3  to  go ;  and  they  talk  ex- 
citedly together  for  a.  few  minutes,  and  almo;4 
forget  poor  Joel,  who  is  anxiously  awaiting  the 
upshot  of  it  all. 

"  Well,  are  you  s:itisfied,  or  do  you  still  wish 
to  fight  me?  "  says  Muiraven  to  him  presently. 

"I  suppose  I've  no  call  to  fight  you,  sir,  if 
you  really  married  her ;  but  I  must  suy  I  should 
like  to  sec  the  lines." 

"You  shall  sec  them,  Cray,  for  her  sake  as 
well  as  mine.  And,  meanwhile,  what  can  I  do 
for  you  ?  " 

"I  want  nothing  now,  sir,  but  to  go  home 
again  and  look  after  mother  and  the  little 
'una." 

"  I  eaimot  talk  more  to  you  at  present,  liut 
you  may  be  sure  I  shall  see  that  none  of  her  re- 
lations want.  Here  is  my  address  " — giving  him 
a  card — "  any  one  will  tell  you  where  it  is.  Come 
to  me  there  to-morrow  evening,  and  we  will  con- 
sult what  I  can  do  to  best  prove  ray  friendship  to 
you."  Upon  which  Muiraven  puts  out  his  hand 
and  grasps  Joel's  rough  palm,  and  the  poor,  hon- 
est, blundering  soul,  feeling  any  thing  but  victo- 
rious, and  yet  with  a  load  lifted  off  his  bosom, 
turns  to  grope  his  way  down-stairs. 

"  Don't  you  lose  that  card,"  says  Stratford, 
who  steps  outside  the  door  to  show  him  where  to 
go;  "for  I  am  sure  his  lordship  will  prove  a 
good  friend  to  you,  if  you  will  let  him  be  so." 

"His  lordship!"  repeats  Joel,  wonderingly; 
."which  be  a  lord— the  little  'un ? " 

"  No,  no,  the  gentkman  whom  you  call  Hamil- 


ton,    liln  real  name  \»  Lord  Muiraven;  you  must 
not  forget  that." 

"  A  lord — a  real  lord — and  he  was  manicil  lo 
my  poor  lass  I  No  wonder  it  killed  her!  Aini 
that  child.  Tommy,  a  lord's  son.  Darn  it,  how 
little  diU'orence  there  is  between  'em  when  tin y'lt 
covered  with  dirt !  "  And  the  firnt  chuckle  tlut 
has  left  Joel's  lips  for  nuiny  a  long  month,  \>n-,\\,t 
from  them  as  hu  steps  carefully  down  the  stcip 
staircase,  and  ponders  on  the  wonderful  tiutli  |;i; 
has  been  told.  "  A  lord's  son,"  he  repeats,  na  lie 
gains  the  street,  and  proceeds  to  shufllu  back  to 
the  Docks  ogain.  "  That  brat  a  lord's  son!  Now, 
I  wonder  if  my  jmor  lass  knew  it  all  along;  or, if 
not,  if  it  makes  her  feel  a  bit  easier  to  know  it 
now  ?  " 

•  •  •  • 

Muiraven  and  Moxon  have  a  long  conversation 
togethi  r  as  they  travel  down  to  Glottonbury. 

"  1  conolude  this  early  mariiagp  of  yours  w,,- 
what  people  call  a  love-match,  eh  ?  "  icmaiks  tlit 
latter  Inquisitively. 

Muiraven  colors. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  8U])po8e  so ;  but  love  appcun 
to  us  in  such  a  different  light,  you  know,  wlitii 
we  come  to  a  maturer  age." 

"  Never  having  had  any  experience  in  that  r(s 
speet,  can't  say  I  do  know." 

"  You  are  lucky,"  with  a  sigh.  "  What  I 
mean  to  say  is,  that  at  the  time  I  certainly  thmi<fi 
I  loved  her.  She  was  just  the  style  of  woman  to 
inflame  a  boy's  first  passion — pretty  features,  per- 
fect shape,  and  a  certain  air  of  abandon  about  her, 
And  then  she  was  several  years  older  than  itij. 
self!" 

"  Ah !  I  understand." 

"  I  was  not '  hooked,'  if  you  moan  that,"  saji 
Muiraven,  quickly. 

"  I  never  knew  a  fellow  yet,  my  dear  boy,  wlio  I 
acknowledged  that  he  had  been.  But  when  a  | 
gentleman,  under  age — " 

"I  was  two-and-twenty." 

"Never  mind.     You  were  as  green  as  tl 
school-boy.     When  a  man,  in  your  station  of  life, 
I  repeat,  is  drawn  into  marriage  with  a  wonui  I 
from  a  class  inferior  to  his  own,  and  older  tlun 
himself,  you  may  call  it  what  you  choose,  but  tbc 
world  in  general  will  call  it '  hooking.'  " 

"  Well,  don't  let  us  talk  of  it  at  all,  then,"  | 
says  Muiraven. 

"  All  right ;  we'll  change  the  subject.  Hot  | 
beastly  cold  it  is  !  " 

Yet,  do  what  they  will,  the  conversation  keeps  I 
veering  round  to  the  forbidden  topic  till  Muiraven 
has  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  his  friend.    A^ 


^ 


lavi'ii ;  yiiii  must 


erk'nce  in  tliut  re- 


mean  that,"  favi 


10  subject.    Hot 


LORD   MUIRAVKNS  LuVVVFUL   HEIR. 


15J 


[IvimI  at  Oluttonbuiy,  tlii>y  iii:tk(>  roiiitilutiiiiM 
iiiqiilricg  concciiiint;  l'rU'.-itU'y  uiui  the  MiinUiuiiN, 
i.ii'l  ilu-ro  our  luTo  K'ni'iifl,  for  tlio  llrot  tiino,  of 
the  ci'loniTrt  death,  niul  the  rtuliMO(|iient  iU']>ai'tui'o 
t>r  his  wtiiotv.  K»  that  it  l.i  no  Hiirpr irtu  to  Moxon 
ntil  hiiiiaelf  to  ho  reoolvcd  hy  Olivi-r  only  whuii 
tlirv  prosriit  tlK>in.'<i'lve8  ut  I'Vn  Cuiirt. 

Of  courso  the  nntiinil  u-'tonl-ihMiuiit  I'Xiilcd 
l,r  tho  n.^sLTtion  that  Totiiiiiy  U  Lord  .Muh-avcn's 
Liw-riil  liflr  lias  to  he  allayed  by  the  cxphinatlun 
;lvi'ii  above.  And  then  Oliver,  who  lias  received 
tiL'f^'ihlen  key  to  Ihc  my.''tery  that  lui.s  pn/zled 
ihi'in,  and  knotv.-t  inneh  morn  about  it  than  Savillo 
Moxon,  become;*  quite  friendly  and  intimate  Vfith 
Muiraven,  and  wants  him  to  i<t:iy  at  the  Court, 
.ml  when  hi.^  invitation  \i  declined  on  tho  pcore 
111"  his  visitor'.s  anxiety  to  find  Mr.^.  Mordauntand 
I'.ic  boy,  Hliakcs  lland.^  with  him  waiiuly,  applaud- 
I  i.:hi.H  zeal,  and  wishinj^  him  all  success  in  his  un- 
ilnliiking,  with  an  cnthu.siasm  that  awakens  the 
barrister's  suspicions. 

"  What  tho  deuco  'vas  that  fellow  so  friendly 
alioiit  ? "  ho  iiKiuires,  as  they  journey  back  to 
iDwn.  "  Why  is  ho  so  anxious  you  should  nei- 
ihor  fat,  drink,  nor  sleep,  till  you  get  on  the  track 
ot'olil  Mordaunt's  widow  ?" 

"  Why,  you  know  perfectly  well  she  has  the 
b.n-." 

"What  of  thit?  she  won't  eat  him,  I  sup- 
pose ;  and  what  difference  can  a  day,  more  or 
lis<,  make  to  you  before  you  sue  him  ?  " 

"  You  have  evidently  not  much  idea  of  patcr- 
n.il  affection,"  says  Muiraven,  as  he  strikes  a  fusee 
OP  the  heel  of  his  boot. 

"  Well,  'vhore  the  father  has  never  seen  his 
ihil.l,  and  didn't  even  know  ho  had  got  one — I 
c.m't  say  I  have." 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  have  seen 
liira." 

"  .Vnd  liked  him  ?  " 

"  Very  much  !     lie  is  a  charming  little  child ! " 

"  Indeed  !    IIow  curious  !     Now,  I  w^n  ler  if 

I  your  liking  for  him  arose  from  a  natural  instinct, 

or  from  any  extraneous  circumstances  that  may 

have  surrounded  him  ?    That  question  would  form 

I  rather  a  neat  psychological  study." 

"  I  don't  follow  you,  Moxon." 

"No?  By-the-way,  Muiraven,  what  became 
of  that  girl — now  what  was  her  name  ? — Miss — 
Miss— St.  John,  wasn't  it  ? — whom  you  were  so 
I  keen  after,  a  few  seasons  ago  ?  " 

"  Keen  after  I  How  you  do  exaggerate,  Mox- 
I  on !  Why  she— she  is  Mrs.  Mordaunt.  I  thought 
}ou  know  that!" 


"  Oh  /  "  says  Moxon,  (|nietly. 

"  I'ray  have  you  any  thing  moio  to  any  on 
this  subject  y  "  remarks  his  friend  presently,  with 
some  dcj^ree  of  pique. 

"  Nothing  whatever,  my  dear  fellow — nothing 
whatever.  Only  pray  Uf.  us  do  all  in  our  power 
to  get  on  the  track  of  \\\i\ithiinniiiij  child aa  koou 
as  po8il)le." 

"  .Moxon,  I  hiite  you  I  "  ."ays  Muiraven  shortly, 

•  ■  •  •  •  • 

Itut  he  cannot  all'ord  to  (li.-:pi'n:  ;  with  his  aid 
nevertheless.  The  ne\t  day  liiids  tliem  at  La- 
burnum Cottage,  the  residence!  of  Mi-<,  Cavendish  ; 
and  even  that  lady's  state  of  tluiter  in  receiving 
one  of  the  aristorracy  in  her  tiny  drawing-room, 
cannot  prevent  her  treating  tlietn  to  a  burst  of 
indignation  at  the  conduct  of  her  niece. 

"  So  wrong—  :iO  very  wrong — "  she  atlliins, 
with  just  a  sullicicnt  chance  of  breaking  down  to 
render  it  necessary  to  liold  her  cniiii>ric  hand- 
kerchief in  lier  hand — "so  iiiiU'Uttl — so  peculiar 
— so  strange  of  Mrs.  Mordaunt  to  leave  us  without 
tho  slightest  dew  to  her  place  of  residence.  And 
she  might  die,  you  know,  my  lord,  or  any  thing 
else,  and  not  a  soul  near  her.  I'm  sure  I  feel 
quite  ashamed  if  any  one  asks  after  her.  And 
there  was  not  the  least  occasion  for  concealment ; 
though,  as  I  always  say,  we  can  expect  no  one  to 
believe  it." 

''Mrs.  Mordaunt  has  probably  her  own  rea- 
sons for  acting  as  she  docs." 

"  Oil,  you  are  very  good,  to  make  exeu.ics  for 
her,  my  lord.  But  she  was  always  willfully  in- 
clined. And  tho  colonel,  whom  wo  thought  s/i 
much  of,  has  behaved  so  badly  to  her,  leaving  all 
his  money  away  to  his  nephew  ;  and  then,  to 
make  matters  look  worse,  Irene  will  continue  to 
keep  a  tjirty  little  boy  whom  she  picked  u[>  in  th(.' 
village,  although — " 

"  TIiui  dirty  little  boy  is  my  son,  Mrs.  Caven- 
dish." 

M.S.  Cavendish  turns  pale — starts,  and  puts 
up  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  It  cannot  be 
true  ;  and,  if  it  is,  that  he  should  sta'id  there  and 
confess  it ! 

What  arc  tho  aristocracy  coming  to  ,'  Savillo 
Moxon  is  so  afraid  the  lady  is  about  to  laiiit,  that 
he  lushes  to  the  rescue,  giving  her  the  whole  8t> 
ry  in  about  two  words.  Upon  wliich  she  rcvivea, 
and  becomes  as  enthusiastic  as  »-      cr  was. 

"  Oh,  my  lord,  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons !  I 
used  tho  word  '  dirty '  most  unadvisedly.  Of 
course  she  has  kept  liirn  scrupulously  clean,  and 
has  treated  him  just  like  her  own  child.  And  1 
always  said — it  wc.s  the  remark  of  every  one— 


tfiO 


NO  INTCNTIONS." 


u 


n  Xi 


what  an  ariHiocraticloukinK  boy  ho  wan.  How 
■iirprlMod — how  chiiriiu'il  mIk:  will  ho!  (Mi,  yim 
luuMt  flml  her ;  I  ntu  xuro  It  can  not  lii>  ho  (lllll- 
cult.  Ami  I  IhIIcvo  Hhu'it  lu  EnKliind,  though 
that  hoiilfl  (iM  Wiilm-dry  will  not  toll." 

"  Vou  think  III!  knows  Ikt  iiiKlrcyH,  thonf" 

"  I  am  Hiiro  of  It ;  but  It  \»  no  uio  (t*iklii((  hlin, 
I'vt;  h(')(|{(!il  und  iiii|iloriM|  of  him  to  tell  nu>,  but 
the  nio»t  ho  will  do  Ih  to  lurwiird  my  k'ttci'i* ; 
und  Iicnu  always  auswoi's  thvm  throu(;h  hhn,  und 
there's  an  end  of  it." 

"And  nhc  U  well?"  deniiindH  .Miilriiven  anx- 
iously. 

"  Oh,  the  dour  child's  quite  well,  my  lord," 
rcplieo  Mrs.  Cuvendi.Mli,  nrL-tlakinf;  the  i^ronoun ; 
"you  need  have  no  fears  of  that.  Her  letters 
arc  full  of  nothing;  but  Tommy,  She  little  thinks 
who  she  htti  pot  the  charge  of.  She  trill  be 
proud,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  am  afraid  wo  roust  leave  you  now,"  says 
her  fUitor,  rising,  "  us  wo  must  try  and  hco  Mr. 
Wolm.-lcy  to-doy." 

"  Oil,  can't  you  stay  a  few  minutes  lonf,'cr — 
just  ton  ?  No !  Well,  then,  good-by,  my  lord, 
and  I  hope  you  will  let  me  know  us  soon  as  you 
hove  traced  my  niece." 

And  Mrs.  Cavendish,  much  to  her  chagrin,  is 
left  alone ;  for  Mary,  who  has  been  up-stairs  all 
this  time  changing  her  dress,  descends  to  the 
drawing-room  in  her  new  blue  merino,  all  ready  to 
captivate  his  lordship,  just  as  his  lordiihip's  tall 
figure  disappears  outside  the  garden-gati.'. 

"  Just  a  minute  too  late !  What  a  juty  ! " 
thinks  Hrs.  Cavendish,  as  she  puts  u"  her  eye- 
glass to  watch  the  departure  of  the  o  young 
men.  "  Well,  he  certainly  is  a  fine-looking  man. 
And  fancy  his  being  a  widower !  Not  but  w  hat 
I  think  my  Mary  would  be  too  sensible  to  object 
to  that.  And  if  the  child  were  in  the  way,  why, 
I  dare  say  Irene  wouldn't  mind  continuing  the 
charge,  as  she  seems  so  fond  of  it.  Well,  all  I 
hope  is,  he'll  come  again,  and  I'll  take  good  care 
next  time  that  Mary  is  ready  dressed  to  receive 
him.  Such  a  chance  to  throw  away  I  If  he'd 
only  seen  her  as  she  looks  now,  the  girl's  fortune 
would  have  been  made." 

Old  Walmsley,  the  solicitor,  is  a  tougher  cus- 
tomer to  deal  with  than  cither  of  them  anticipated, 
and  even  Saville  Moxon  finds  it  beyond  Ids  skill 
to  worm  out  any  thing  from  him  that  he  doesn't 
choose  to  tell. 

"It's  all  very  well,  gentlemen,"  ho  says,  in 
answer  to  their  combined  entreaties,  "  but  you're 
asking  me  to  betray  the  confidence  of  one  of  my 


liientx,  which  Is  a  thing  I've  never  done  durin.'  o 
practico  of  Hveandthli  I  y  years,  and  which  I  ddn  t 
Intend  to  begin  doing  now." 

"  Hut,  look  here,  Mr.  Walmsley,"  iiuys  Miiir. 
aven,  "  surely,  under  llio  ciieum-tmu'eti,  I  Imvc  % 
right  to  demand  Mrn.  Mordaiint's  aiMress  ;  i>lii.'  i- 
detaining  my  child  from  me." 

'  TIkmi  you  can  write  and  deiii.inil  tlic  cliiM, 
my  lord,  and  the  letter  kIiuII  Ic-  duly  rorwuiili'l  t<j 
hJr." 

"  Hut  she  may  not  answer  It." 

"  I  think  that  very  unlikely." 

"  Hut  I  want  to  see  the  child." 

"  I  am  iuro  my  client  will  not  detain  It  i,:i 
hour  longer  than  it  is  her  due." 

"  Uut  I  want  to  tec  Acr,"  he  bursts  out  in. 
potuouMly, 

Old  WahncUy  looks  ut  him  over  his  hjui. 
tadcs. 

"I  think  you  were  the  llonoialile  Kiie  Kii-, 
my  lord  V " 

"  What  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  the  late  Mr.-i,  St.  John's  ciitiie  c  i,- 
fidence."     Miiiraven  reddens. 

"Well,  if  you  were,  you  know  the  reason  wb 
I  disapjiointed  her.  I  have  jusit  told  it  y<iii.  1 
was  a  marriei!  man — I  am  a  widower !  " 

"  And  Mrs.  MorJaunt  is  a  widow  !  " 

"  Kxactly  so. — Moxon,  for  Heaven's  ."akc  ii . ; 
you  find  something  more  interesting  to  stare  it 
than  myself? — Now,  will  you  give  mo  her  aJ- 
dicss,  Mr.  Walmsley?" 

"  I  see  no  further  reason  for  it,  my  lord.  Tci; 
can  still  write." 

"  This  is  too  hard,"  cries  Muiraven,  inipeti.. 
ously,  as  he  jumps  up  from  his  seat,  and  c  :■ 
mcnoes  striding  up  and  down  the  solicitor's  office 
"  My  tongue  has  been  tied  for  years.  I  have  ban. 
ishcd  myself  from  her  presence ;  I  have  even  Idi  | 
home  in  order  to  avoid  the  temptation  of  Kpoak 
ing  to  her ;  and,  now  that  the  opportunity  j  r. 
scnts  itself.— now  that  at  last  I  am  able  to — to—' 

"Go  on,  Muiraven,"  says  Moxon,  encoura: 
ingly,  '  lo  claim  my  charminrf  child.' " 

"  Vou  sha'n't  go  down  with  me,  wherever  it  i- 
for  one,"  replies  Muiraven,  flushing  up  to  t!:^ 
roots  of  his  hair,  as  ho  tries  to  turn  off  his  rha; 
sody  with  an  uneasy  laugh. — "  Mr.  Walmsley,  • 
there  no  hope  for  me  ?  " 

"None  that  I  shall  betray  Mrs.  Mordaiii!'. 
confidenec,  my  lord." 

Muiraven  sighs. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  content  myself  wit': 
writing,  then." 

"  But  if,"  continues  the  old  lawyer,  slyly— "i' I 


Mils.    MORDAUNTS   HBHIDKNCK. 


167 


Jolin'i*  entire  c". 


•  it,  my  lord.    Yt. 


y  Sirs.  Mordaimi- 


vDi  w.  ro  Id  Hi't  vi>ur<rlvi"»  to  »/'«»,»  ihr  |il.ier 
when-  my  eliiiit  Ims  liliMi-n  IktmcH',  why — why  -" 

"Whiit  ihinV "  ciiKi'ily. 

"I  r^iioiijcl  l)c  very  iiiiu'h  niiiiuMvl,  niy  Ion! — 
I li-ei'ilhi^Iy  iinii'iyi'il ;  Indueil,  w-itli  ii  lnw  rhuelili', 
"wcro  you  to  giioiti  ri)(ht,  I  tliiiik  I  nhoiilil— 1 
.houlJ-" 

"Whiit  Hhoulil  you  ilo?" 

"(ii'l  up  imd  loiivo  tlio  room,  nnd  slant  the 
(1  )or  hc'hind  nic," 

"Comoon,  Moxon,"  nuyit  Mulruvon  n'l'^'lully, 
Ai  hi'  dritwi*  a  eluiir  to  tlu>  tulilu  nv'itm.  "  Lt't'.i 
b'V'iii  niid  guiM.-*  all  the  jtlacoH  in  Kn^hitid  ul|<lia- 
lietlenlly,  till  wo  come  to  iho  rlj^ht  one." 

"  Hut  I  (hui't  know  nny  of  them.  I've  Tor- 
:'.)tii!i  nil  ubout  my  p>o].'riii)hy,"  n-plie-t  Moxon. 

"Oil,  nonsense  I  it's  ai  ea.^y  as  can  lie.  Now 
foi-.V:  AlderKj^fito  (oh,  no  I  tlut's  In  London). 
.Vylc^liuiy,  Altoi'di'on,  A — ,  .V — .  Holhn'  it! 
wliicli  are  the  plaecn  that  Itcgin  with  A  f  " 

"  .Vnimer.Mmith,"  »uj;'4('."(t.'»  Moxon  ;  ill  whloh 
(M  Walinnloy  Ian};li«. 

"  If  you're  goiu};  to  play  the  fool,  I  ><ivo  it  up," 
SIM  Muiraven,  Hulitily. 

"  All  iiKlit,  di'ar  old  fellow  !  I  lliouf^ht  it  did 
lie/m  with  A.  Arundel,  Aberystwith,  Axniinstcr. 
There  are  tlirec  proper  ones  for  you  insteiul." 

"  Aluwiek,  Alresford,  Andover,"  continues 
liU  friend  ;  and  then,  after  a  long  pause,  "  Tlierc 
'!'•''  no  morn  A's".  Let's  fi't  on  to  H.  Uristol, 
Brighton,  Hinninf;hain,  Hulmoral,  H.iltiuiore — " 

"  Stay  ;  tlint's  in  Amerien,  old  hoy  t  Uasinj^- 
6tol«c,  Hath,  Ueaminatcr. — Doe.sn't  it  remind  one 
of '  I  love  my  love  with  a  B,  bee.inso  she  U 
Beautifid  ?  I  hate  her  with  a  B,  becau.so  she  is 
Bumptious.' " 

"  (.'.vn't  you  bo  sano  for  five  minutes  together, 
Mo.xon  ?  If  this  matter  is  sport  to  you,  remen'.- 
bcr  it's  death  to  me." 

"Better  give  it  up,  Muiraven,  and  write  in- 
stead. You  can't  expect  to  go  on  at  this  rate 
and  Ivocp  your  senses.  To  go  through  all  the 
towns  in  the  United  Kingdom,  alphabetically, 
would  ruin  the  finest  mental  constitution.  Per- 
liops  Mr.  Walmsley  could  oblige  us  with  a  gazet- 
teer." 

"  I  don't  keep  sueh  a  thing  at  my  olTiee,  sir." 

"  Let's  try  C,  at  all  events,  Moxon,  and  then 
I'll  think  about  writing  the  letter.  Cambridge, 
Canterbury,  Carlisle,  CardilT,  Cheltenham,  Ches- 
ter, Cliatham— " 

"  Caistor,  Caribec  Islands,"  interposes  Moxon. 

"  Chichester,  Cornwall,  Clifton,"  goes  on  Muir- 
aven, with  silent  contempt;  "Croydon,  Cockle- 
bury— Holloa !  Moxon  (staiting),  whafs  that?"  as 


u  loud  .'ilain  of  tliu  olllee-door  intcrriipt^  liU 
dri'iiMiy  (■atalo;;u<\ 

"Only  th.il  W.tlnisli'y  hait  ru-lied  out  of  tlic 
lOoin  as  if  the  idd  gentleman  were  after  hiiu." 

"  But  wlmt  illd  I  say?" 

"  .Nothing  that  I  know  of.  Vim  wen;  Jabber- 
ing over  your  townn  beginning  with  ('." 

"  But  the  word — the  word — wag  it  Croydon  or 
Coeklebury?  Don't  you  nnder.stuml  ?  I  have 
hit  tlie  right  one  at  last!  By  Jove!  what  luck." 
He  i.'i  beaming  ail  over,  as  he  npeaks,  with  love 
ui»d  cxpeetjttion, 

"  I  suppose  you  nuist  have;  but  I'm  whipped 
if  I  know  which  it  can  be." 

"It's  Coeklebury.  I'm  fm  ■  it's  Coekleliury. 
It  can't  1)0  Croydon.  \o  one  who  wanted  to  hide 
woulil  go  to  Croydon.     It  mu.it  be  Coeklebury? 

"  .\ud  where  tlio  deuce  is  Coeklebury  ?  " 

"  Down  in  Hampshire,  the  most  out  of-the-way 
place  in  the  world.  I  was  there  once  for  a  few- 
days'  fishing ;  but  how  the  luinte  camo  into  my 
head  beats  me  altogclh<>r.  It  was  I'rovidenee  or 
inspiration  that  put  it  there.  But  it's  all  right 
now.  I  don't  care  for  any  thing  else.  I  nhall  go 
down  to  Coeklebury  to-night."  And  leajiing  up 
from  his  chair,  Muiraven  commences  to  button 
his  great-coat  and  drow  on  his  gloves  again  ju'c- 
paratory  to  a  start. 

"  Himi !  "  says  Moxon.  "  Vou  promised  to 
SCO  that  man  Cray  to-night." 

"  You  can  see  him  for  mc.  You  can  tell  him 
nil  I  ."hould  have  done.  There  is  no  personal 
feeling  in  the  matter." 

''  Cocklespillbury,  or  what  ever  Its  name  is, 
being  an  oljscurc  fishing  handct,  there  is  proba- 
bly not  another  train  to  it  to-day." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  there  is  a  train — there  must 
be  a  train — there  »hall  be  a  train." 

"  All  right !  And  if  not,  you  can  have  a 
special.    Money's  no  object." 

"  Moxon,  I  always  thought  you  were  rather  a 
well-meaning  fellow  ;  but  it  strikes  mc  that  you've 
not  got  much  feeling  in  this  matter." 

"  I  always  thought  you  were  a  man  of  sense  ; 
but  it  strikes  mc  that  you're  going  to  make  an  U8» 
of  yourself," 

"Do  you  Avant  to  quarrel  with  me?"  says 
Muiraven,  grandly,  as  he  steps  opposite  to  his 
friend. 

"  \ot  in  the  least,  my  dear  fellow  ;  but  if  any 
thing  could  make  us  quarrel,  it  would  bo  to  see 
you  acting  with  so  little  forethought." 

"  Ah,  Moxon,  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to — 
to—" 

"  To  be  the  father  of  'a  charming  child,'  no ; 


158 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


'!  '  f ' 


m 


'■SI, 


H.  '  '  !* 


i .'  a 


but  if  I  were,  I  am  sure  I  sliniild  defer  seeing 
him  till  to-morrow." 

"  Gentlemen,  Imve  you  left  off  cayin^  your  A 
IJ  C  ?  "  demands  old  Walm»ley,  as  he  puts  his 
head  in  again  at  the  door. 

"My  dear  sir,  I  am  so  mwn  oliliged  to  you," 
exclaimes  Muiraven,  seizing  his  hand  with  un- 
necessary warmth. 

"I'm  rejoi'^cd  to  hear  it,  my  lord  ;  btit  whi\t 
for?" 

"  For  telli  ig  me  Mrs.  Mordaunt's  address." 

"  I'm  sure  I  never  told  you  that.  It's  against 
nil  my  prineiples  t'.  betray  a  client's  confidenee." 

"  Hut  for  slamming  the  door  in  that  delightful 
manner.  It  comes  to  the  same  thing,  you  know. 
Coeklebury  in  Hampshire.  There  can't  be  two 
Coekleburys.  And  now  I  must  be  off  to  see  if  I 
■,.in  gel  a  train  down  there  to-night." 

"  I  can  satisfy  you  on  that  point,  my  lord. 
No  truin  stopping  at  the  nearest  station  to  Cockle- 
bury  leaves  town  after  two  o'clock." 

"  The  devil !  "  says  Muiraven. 

"Come,  Muiraven,  be  reasonable.  Keep  your 
appoluinieut  with  Cray  this  evening,  and  don't 
think  of  leaving  London  till  to-morrow." 

"He  can't  do  it,"  interposes  the  solicitor,  dry- 

"  He  is  equal  to  any  thing :  he  will  bestride  a 
forty-horse  power  bicycle  if  I  don't  prevent  him," 
replies  Moxon,  laughing. 

But  Muiraven  does  not  laugh.  All  the  light 
seems  to  have  faded  out  of  his  face. 

"  You  are  right,  Moxon,"  ho  says,  gloomily. 
"Take mo  home  and  do  what  you  will  with  me. 
I  am  worse  than  a  child." 

Old  Walmsley  sees  them  go  with  a  sly  chuckle 
and  a  rub  of  the  hands. 

"  Hope  I  haven't  departed  from  my  principles," 
he  thinks  to  himself ;  "  but  I  couldn't  have  sent 
him  away  without  it.  Poor  young  thing.  How 
it  will  brighten  up  her  dull  life  to  see  him !  And 
if  it  should  come  right  at  last — and  it  looks  very 
much  to  me  as  if  it  tccre  coming  right — why — why, 
I  hope  they'll  lot  me  draw  up  the  settlements — 
that's  all." 

Joel  Cray's  untutored  mind  is  vastly  astonished 
by  the  reception  which  he  receives  at  Lord  Muir- 
aven's  hands  that  evening. 

"  I  hope  you  understand  perfectly,"  says  his 
host,  when,  after  considerable  difficulty,  he  has 
induced  the  rough  creature  to  take  a  chair,  and 
Bit  down  beside  him,  "  that  I  had  no  idea  but 
that  my  wife  had  left  me  with  another  man,  else 
I  should  have  advertised  openly  for  her,  or  set 


the  detective  officers  to  find  out  her  ndihis.-. 
But  I  feared  the  discovery  would  only  lead  to  an 
cxi)osuro  of  my  own  dishonor,  and  preferred  \h,. 
silent,  solitary  life  I  have  adhered  to  simv, 
Could  I  have  known  that  Myra  was  still  ti  iie  to 
me,  I  would  have  risked  every  thing  to  ]ilaee  lur 
in  the  position  slie  hud  a  right  to  cluini." 

"She  was  true  to  you,  sir,  and  no  mistalio; 
for,  I  don't  mind  a-telling  you  now,  that  I  trlKl 
hard  to  make  her  my  wife ;  but  'twern't  o*'  no 
good.  She  allays  stuck  to  it  that  she  couldn't 
forget  you  ;  and  till  strength  failed  her,  she  wa- 
on  her  feet  a-tramping  after  you." 

"  While  I  was  out  of  tlio  country,  tryin;;  \n 
forget  the  iiisgraeo  whieli  I  tliougiit  attaelicd  t.j 
me.    Poor  Myra! " 

"She's  dead  and  done  with,  sir.  It's  no  u-- 
our  a-pipin'  nor  a-quarrelin'  over  her  any  more." 

"  You  speak  very  sensibly,  Cray  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  I  am  anxious  to  show  you  that  I  regret 
th*^  past,  and  should  like  to  make  some  anicml- 
for  it,  if  possible.  I  cannot  let  any  of  Myra's  re- 
lations want.  You  tell  me  you  arc  going  back  to 
Priestley.     What  do  you  do  there  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  day-laborer,  sir — my  lord,  I  mean," 
with  a  touch  of  his  hair. 

"  And  your  mother  ?  " 

"  She  takes  in  washin',  ray  lord,  and  has  five 
little  'una  to  keep  on  it." 

"  It  is  those  five  little  ones  I  wish  to  lielpluT 
and  you  to  maintain  ;  so  I  have  placed  with  my 
friend  here,  Mr.  Sloxon,  who  is  a  lawyer,  two 
thousand  pounds  to  be  disposed  of  as  you  maj 
think  best ;  either  placed  in  the  bank  to  your 
credit,  or  laid  out  in  the  purchase  of  land,  or  in 
any  way  that  may  most  conduce  to  your  com- 
fort." 

"Two  —  thousand — pounds!"  repeats  Jout, 
v.'ith  drawn-out,  incredulous  wonder,  ns  he  rises 
from  his  chair. 

"  Yes !  that  will  bring  you  in  about  sixty 
pounds  a  year ;  or  if  you  expend  it  in  a  little 
farni— " 

"Two  —  thousand — pounds/"  reiterates  tlic 
l.iborer  slowly,  "  it  ain't  true,  sir,  surely !  " 

"  I  would  not  deceive  you,  Cray,  I  give  it  yon, 
not  as  compensation  for  your  cousin's  bliglitcii 
life,  remember,  but  as  a  token  that  if  I  coulil  I 
would  have  prevented  her  unhappiness.  I  lovoil 
her,  Cray ;  didn't  marry  her  to  desert  her.  Plic 
deserted  me." 

Joel's  dirty,  horny  hand  comes  forth,  timidly, 
but  steadily,  to  meet  Muiraven's. 

"May I  do  it,  sir?  God  bless  you  for  them 
words !    They're  better  than  all  the  money  to  me. 


..?.,-.«,■,  .^.  ^■i^i^M-n.riiE* 


MRS.   MOKDAUNTS   LETTER. 


159 


lord,  and  has  fivo 


ics  forth,  tiinWly. 


And  If  the  poor  giil  can  hoar  them  too,  I  ht'lk-vc 
heaven  looks  the  brighter  to  lier.  You're  very 
good,  sir.  I  asks  your  pardon,  hiiml)ly,  for  all 
IBV  bad  tlioughts  toward  you,  and  I  hope  as  you'll 
get  ft  good  wife  and  a  true  wife  yet.  Tlmt'll  he 
neither  shame  nor  blame  to  you." 

"  Timnk  you,  Cray.  I  hope  before  lonu;  you'll 
Jo  the  same,  and  teach  your  ehildien  that  fi;entle- 
men  have  hearts  sometimes  as  well  as  poorer  men. 
I  shall  always  take  an  interest  in  you  and  your 
doings  ftiid  my  friend  here  will  see  that  the  mon- 
ov  I  spoke  of  is  handed  over  to  you  as  soon  as 
you  are  ready  to  receive  it." 

"I  don't  know  about  the  raarryinjr,  my  lord,'' 
sava  Joel,  sheepishly,  "  for  it  seems  a  troublous 
business  at  the  best  to  me;  but  there'll  lie  plenty 
of  prayers  going  up  for  you  from  J'riostley,  and 
the  worst  I  wishes  for  you  is  that  they  may  bring 
you  all  the  luck  you  deserve." 

"And  to  think,"  he  continues  to  himself  as  he 
returns  to  his  own  home,  "that  that  there's  the 
limp  I  swore  by  my  poor  gal's  grave  to  bring  to 
jud.iment  for  her  wi'oiigs  !  " 

The  eleven-o'clock  train  next  day  takes  Muir- 
I  aren  down  to  the  nearest  town  to  Cocklebury. 
.\!1  by  himself:  he  has  positively  refused  to  travel 
any  more  in  Moxon's  company.  Two  hours  bring 
iiim  to  the  place,  but  there  is  no  hotel  there,  only 
I  an  old-fashioned  iim,  with  raftered  ceilings  and 
(H.imond-shaped  windows,  called  "  The  Coach  and 
I  Horses,"  where  our  hero  is  compelled  to  put  up 
land  dine,  while  he  sends  a  messenger  over  to 
I  Cocklebury.  lie  has  not  come  down-stairs,  for 
Ihesatup  late  last  night,  writing  a  long  detailed 
I  account  to  Mrs.  Mordaunt  of  his  early  luarrtaire 
land  bis  wife's  identity,  so  that  the  worst  may  be 
lover  before  he  and  Irene  meet  again.  And  this 
lletter,  which  winds  up  with  an  entreaty  that  lie 
Iraay  go  over  at  once  to  Cocklebury  to  see  and 
Idaim  his  child,  he  dispatches  as  soon  as  possible 
jto  Irene's  residence,  striving  meanwhile  to  be- 
Iguile  his  impatience  by  an  attempt  to  miisticate 
jihe  frcshlj--killcd  beef  which  the  landlady  of  the 
j" Coach  and  Horses"  places  before  him,  and 
Iwhich  only  results  in  his  emptying  the  llask  of 
pojnac  he  has  brought  with  him,  and  walking  up 
snd  down  the  cold,  musty-smelling,  unused  town, 
jimtil  he  has  nearly  worked  himself  into  a  fever 
»lth  impatience  and  suspense.  How  he  pictures 
Iter  feelings  on  opening  that  important  packet ! 
phc  will  shed  a  few  tears,  perhaps,  at  first,  poor 
narling,  to  learn  he  has  ever  stood  in  so  close  a 
relationship  to  any  other  woman ;  but  they  will 
roon  dry  up  beneath  the  feverish  delight  with 


wliieh  she  will  recogi)i.<e  the  tiutli  that  he  is  once 
nvjfc  IVoc — that  they  are  both  fiie,  at  last,  to 
li  ve  and  comfort  one  an<.tlier.  Ah  !  that  he  eould 
out  be  on  the  spot  to  eomlort  her  now  !  What 
is  this  fool  of  a  me?seiiLrer  about,  not  to  return? 
It  is  not  half  a  mile  to  CoeUlelnuy  1  Why  did  he 
not  go  himself? 

Peace!  jiatienee !  He  knows  Hint  ho  has 
done  what  is  most  right  and  jiroper  in  sending  an 
(v<iiif-coiirrkr  to  apprise  her  of  his  comi:ig;  and 
it  will  not— it  cannot  lie  long  before  ho  holds  her 
hi  his  arms  ngtiin. 

Iiihkiirinn  !  (!od  of  heaven  !  how  tliey  trem- 
Ide  at  the  ti»ouf.'ht — in  his  arms  I — thiit  have 
t.'cmed  ."o  many  times  to  fold  her  sweet  self 
iigiiiiist  his  heart,  and  closed  upon  tiie  empty  air 
instead!  In  his  arms!  ///,i  darlmg — /(is Irene — 
the  0110  love  of  his  life!  lie  will  ki^s  awuy  her 
tears  ;  he  will  pour  his  protestations  of  lidolity  in 
her  ear — ho  will  have  the  right  now  to  explain 
every  thing — to  atone  for  every  thing — to  offer 
her  the  rest  of  his  existence  as  reparati(jn  for  the 
past !  And  she — his  injured  ungel — his  dear,  suf- 
fering martyr — what  a  vista  of  happiness  will  open 
out  before  her! — what  a —  lliirk !  what  was 
i  that  ?     A  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in  !  come  in  !  " 

llis  messenger  has  returned  :  the  laudludy  aj)- 
pears  before  him  holding  forth  an  envelope. 

"  Give  it  inc — at  once  I "  lie  tears  it  from  her 
hand,  impetuously,  and  she  says  afterward,  with 
some  degree  of  umbrage,  that  the  gentleman  looked 
more  like  a  hungry  wolf  at  her,  than  a  man  v;ho 
Iiad  had  his  dinmn-  at  tiie  "Coach  and  Horses." 

TIic  room  is  dark  and  gloomy.  He  iakea  the 
precious  letter  to  the  window  ;  his  himd  tbakos, 
so  that  ho  can  scai'cely  open  It.  At  la^t !  yes,  it 
is  her  dear  writing.  Before  he  reads  it  lie  presses 
kisses  on  the  senseless  paper. 

"  My  deau  Lord  Mi'iraven  : 

"  I  HAVE  received  your  httcr.  I  need  not 
tell  you  that  its  contents  wore  a  grcn.t  surprise  to 
me.  I  was  aware,  from  certain  papers  belonging 
to  his  mother,  and  confided  to  mc  after  her  death, 
tliat  my  adopted  child  was  your  son ;  but  I  was 
little  prepared  to  hear  that  he  had  been  bom  in 
wedlock.  For  his  sake,  1  sincerely  rejoice  *hat  it 
should  be  so.  I  can  fully  enter  into  your  natural 
anxiety  to  claim  and  acknowledge  him,  and  I  will 
send  him  to  you  with  as  little  delay  as  pog.^ible. 
But  yon  must  forgive  mo  for  declining  your  kind 
offer  to  visit  me  here,  for  I  have  literally  seen  no 
one  since  my  dear  husband's  death,  and  feel  quite 
unequal  to  the  task  oi  receiving  visitors.    If  you 


I 
I 


160 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


u 


fy-M 


-I 


:^M 


[^  i. 


miu 


■J  i 


r^ 


n 


will  be  so  good  as  to  let  mo  know  bow,  and  when 
Tommy  is  to  join  you,  I  will  be  careful  to  see  your 
wiiihes  arc  attended  to. 

"  Uelieve  me  yours  Hinccrcly, 

"  InHNE  MORDAU.NT." 

She  will  not  see  him — will  not  receive  him  at 
her  house.  What  devil's  charm  is  again  at  worlv 
to  circumvent  tlieir  mcctiuK? 


cnAriER  XIV. 

It  was  no  affectation  of  pique  or  scnliraent,  or 
even  a  morbid  sensibility,  that  made  Irene  desir- 
ous her  place  of  residence  should  be  kept,  for  the 
present,  a  secret  from  her  friends  and  relations. 
She  was  simply  sick  of  the  world,  and  the  world's 
treatment  of  her;  and  felt  as  though  she  never 
should  recover  from  this  last  shock  unless  she 
were  left  alone.  She  had  tried  so  hard  during 
her  married  life  to  do  her  duty,  and  win  her 
husband's  trust  and  confidence,  that  it  was  a 
bitter  blow  to  find  for  her  reward  that  he  had 
not  only  suspected  her  virtue  as  no  other  man 
would  have  dared  to  do,  but  had  left  her  for  sole 
legacy  a  dishonored  name — he,  for  whose  sake 
she  had  trampled  on  the  thorny  love  he  believed 
her  capable  of  cherishing,  unmindful  how  much 
her  shrinking  flesh  bled  from  the  contact  so  long 
as  she  might  carry  her  head  erect,  her  conscience 
undefilcd  and  pure.  Slie  did  not  realize  the  ex- 
tent of  the  injury  done  to  her  fair  fame  until  the 
grave  had  closed  over  the  remains  of  Colonel 
Mordaunt.  Until  then  her  mind  had  been  so 
much  occupied  with  the  grief  his  loss  occasioned 
her,  that  it  had  had  no  time  to  dwell  on  the  doubt- 
ful position  in  whicli  she  would  be  placed  by  the 
alteration  of  his  will.  But  afterward  she  saw  it ! 
She  read  it  in  Oliver's  indignation,  Isabella's 
pity,  and  Mrs.  Quekett's  ill-concealed  delight. 
Notwithstanding  the  good  intentions  of  her  sister- 
in-law  and  step-son,  it  hurt  her  pride  that  they 
should  press  on  her  as  a  free-will  offering  that 
which  should  have  been  her  own  by  riglit.  She 
could  appreciate  their  offection,  but  yet  ii,  stung 
her  bitterly.  She  could  not  remain  at  Fen  Court, 
where  she  had  reigned  supreme,  and  where  the 
power  to  reign  to  her  life's  end  would  have  been 
too  small  a  return  for  the  sacrifices  she  had  made 
there,  as  a  visitor  or  even  as  a  friend.  And  then 
the  child — whom  she  had  learned  to  love  so  much 
for  his  own  sake — wliom  she  regarded  as  a  sacred, 
though  unconscious  trust,  from  Eric — who  was 


about  the  only  creature  left  whom  she  could  din  > 
to— was  .she  to  part  with  him?  Ikr  uamu  liad 
been  so  cruelly  associated  with  hi:",  she  coulj  not 
keep  him  at  Fen  Court,  nor  even  near  ii ;  nor 
sliould  he  be  dependent  on  any  one  but  ht.'rmlf 
or  his  own  father  for  his  maintenance ;  wlmt 
alternative,  then,  remained  to  her  (unless  sliv 
separated  from  Tommy  and  meekly  accepted  (l,i 
stigma  cast  upon  them  both)  but  to  go  awuy  V 

Irene  was  not  a  Immble-spirited,  long-suITt,!. 
ing  Uriselda,  quietly  to  accept  the  indignity  that 
had  been  offered  her  :  tlie  very  fact  that  hei'  luiv 
band's   suspicions   were    unfounded    made  litr 
the   more  determined   to  sliow   the  world   At 
snapped  her  fingers  at  tliem,  and  nothing  sliouU 
induce  her  to  part  with  the  cliiid  of  her  adopiioa 
except  lluiraven's  wishes.     She  did  not  feel  iIks, 
tilings  so  keenly  before  the  will  was  read.    He 
heart  had  been  softened  by  her  last  intervint 
with  Philip.     She  had  felt  so  much  for  his  ui- 
tress,  that  her  own  had  been,  for  the  wliile,  k-; 
sight- of.    But  when  she  heard  herself  deCamiii, 
and  know  that  every  servant  in  her  employ  «,i- 1 
made  aware  that  lie  had  suspected  her,  her  pii.i 
rose  uppermost :  the  firmness  and  decision  wliiii 
had  made  her  what  she  was  came  to  the  front,  ai.i  I 
had  the  retemion  of  Tommy  Brown  blasted  tk  | 
remainder  of  her  life,  she  would  have  so  bla.-K 
it.     She  had  a  right  to  keep  the  child — she  liai  | 
adopted  him  with  her  husband's  full  consent, im; 
no  power  on  earth  but  one  should  part  thin.  | 
Slie  went  to  Laburnum  Cottage,  intending  tliti'. 
quietly  to  think  over  and  settle  her  plans,    lie:  | 
when  she  came  to  consider,  she  felt  that  as  loi; 
as  Oliver  knew  where  to  find  her,  he  would  neur 
leave  her  in  peace.     He  would  follow,  and  aigui.  I 
and  plead,  and  pray,  until  perhaps  he  fairly  w.j 
ried  her  into  acting  against  her  own  conscicnci 
and  to  be  left  in  peace  was  her  most  ardent  il^  I 
sire.     She  wanted  time,  and  repose,  and  quiet  t. 
enable  her  to  look  'aer  future — her  blank,  i'liu:| 
less  future — steadily  in  the  face.    For  remenibi:, 
tliat  for  Irene  still  existed  that  mysterious,  iius  I 
plicable  barrier  that  had  risen  up,  three  yciri 
ago,  between  Muiraven  and  herself,  and  she  IbJ 
but  one  hope  concerning  him — that  he  would  pc 
mit  her  to  retain  the  guardianship  of  his,  ns  yal 
unknown  child.     To  compass  the  end  she  Lad  1: 
view,  Irene  i'elt  her  destination  must  be  kciitil 
secret.     Her  only  chance  of  recovery  lay  in  spocil 
ing  a  few  quiet  months,  imtil  the  first  bitternesj 
of  her  despair  was  over,  and  she  had  fixed  upc: 
her  future  course  of  life.     Mrs.  Cavendish  wl 
most  anxious  she  should  take  lodgings  at  Sydetl 
ham,  or  remain  with  her  at  Laburnum  Cottaal 


._J  V^-^'ii 


CITY  AND  COUNTRY  LIFE  CONTKASTEU. 


161 


m  alio  could  cliti;; 
llor  nsiinc  liaJ 
hy,  site  could  niii 
vcn  iieiir  il ;  nor 
r  one  but  liorsdf 
lintcnnnce ;  wlmt 
her  (unless  sh. 
ckly  accepted  iht 
it  to  go  away  ? 
iritcd,  long-suffii- 
the  indignity  tbai 
fact  that  her  hn- 
undcd    mndo  btr 
w  the  world  sIk 
lid  nothing  shouii 
Id  of  her  adopiioii 
t  did  not  feci  tbtso 
11  was  read,    lb: 
her  last  inlenii* 
much  for  his  ui- 
for  the  while,  W\ 
d  herself  delanuii, 
in  her  employ  \U: 
!Ctcd  her,  her  \nV.i: 
and  decision  wlmii 
me  to  the  front,  ati 
Brown  blasted  ihi 
iild  have  sohlarK 
ithc  child — the  bai 
3  full  consent, iici  I 
should  part  thin. 
ige,  intending  tlitrt 
,1c  her  plans.    Ik. 
le  felt  that  as  loi; 
ler,  he  would  ncv^: 
follow,  and  argm. 
haps  he  fairly  wo: 
cr  own  conscienci 
■r  most  ardent  lit 
pose,  and  quiet  i. 
-her  blank,  dm:' 
c.     For  rcmenibi: 
it  mysterious,  iius- 
icn  up,  three  yi;.rij 
erself,  and  slic  m 
-that  he  would  pC' 
iship  of  his,  ns  yal 
the  end  she  bad :: 
on  must  be  kcpti| 
!COverylayinspeto 
the  first  bitternesl 
Bhe  had  fixed  upc: 
Irs.  Cavendish  M 
lodgings  at  sM 
Laburnum  Cotta? 


So  close  to  Loiulon,  she  luij^Iit  renew  ac(iuaiut- 
anccsliip  with  all  her  old  friends;  and  then  the 
(jvst.il  Palaco,  sueh  an.  advantage !  Hut  tb.e 
prospect  of  viuiiiicy  to  flower-shows  and  cut- 
-hows,  concerts,  puutoniinies,  and  conjurers, 
ieoiueJ  to  hold  out  no  eliarins  to  our  poor  hero- 
ine. Siie  remained,  as  her  aunt  her.-iell'  expressed 
il,  "as  obstinate  as  a  pig,"  and  put  iu  her  final 
i!;um  to  the  charaeter  by  going  up  to  town  one 
,'„iv  with  her  child  and  her  luggage,  and  thence 
ivriling  to  inform  Mrs.  Cavendish  that  she  had 
:ixcd  on,  and  was  about  to  proceed  to,  a  distant 
place,  where  she  hoped  and  intended  to  remain 
I />•■/•(/«,  and  free  from  the  innovations  of  all  well- 
I  meaning  friends  until  slic  should  have  somewhat 
recovered  from  the  sudden  shock  of  her  late  be- 
I  r.avemcnt.  But  she  did  not  refuse  to  conimuni- 
I  iMte  with  her  relations,  and  many  letters  on  tiio 
I'ject  passed  between  them  through  themedium- 
I  .-hip  of  Mr,  Walmsley. 

It  was  strange  how  Cocklebury  happoneil  to 
III  •come  Irene's  destination.  Slie  had  thouglit  of 
I  Winchester — indeed,  bhe  had  gone  down  to  Win- 
■  k'ster,  hearing  it  tci  be  a  dull,  behind-tlie-world 
Ijortof  old  place,  but  had  found  the  town  fuller 
laaJ  more  accessible  than  she  anticipated,  and 
IjiiisscJ  on  to  a  littlo  village  beyond.  Tnere  she 
ihai  experienced  much  diilieulty  in  finding  lodg- 
liii!;3,  and  a  certain  landlady,  in  accounting  for  the 
Iroatof  her  apartments,  mentioned  that  they  were 
jin great  demand.  "For  only  yesterday,  mum,  a 
llady,  as  might  be  yourself,  came  over  from  Coek- 
bbury,  which  is  a  good  twenty-seven  mile  to  the 
|l.ft|Athis,  all  in  a  flutter  for  rooms,  and  would 
lluvciook  these  directly,  only  t.vo  wasn't  enough 
jl'jr  her." 

Cocklebury!  the  nainesei  ncd  familiar  to  her; 
riiere  had  she  heard  it  before?  Shu  could  not 
::!1,  and  yet  it  reverberated  on  her  heart  as  th  igh 
Stliddaplace  there.  I'nubtless  she  had  heard 
It  la  some  desultory  convei-ation  with  Lord  Muir- 
.vei),  but  the  remembrance  1  died  away.  Only 
from  that  cursory  mention  the  fishing-village 
rew  out  her  final  settlement  ti  e.  She  returned 
lo  Winchester,  and  began  to  n  ike  inquiries  con- 
lerning  Cocklebury,  and,  going  to  look  at  tlie 
Icjdate,  retired  littlo  hole,  found  two  tiny  rooms 
|o  suit  a  quarterly  balance  of  five-and-twenty 
founds,  and  engaged  them. 

It  was  a  dull,  lowering  autumn  day  when  the 
loiing  widow  removed  her  boxes  and  her  little 
Iw  to  their  new  home.  Who  is  it  thinks  the 
loimtry  charming  .all  the  year  round  ?    5Iany  sai/ 

but  they  belong  chiefly  to  the  unfortunate 
psj  whose  health,  business,  or   profit,  renders 

n  . 


such  a  residence  compulsory  to  them  ;  and  it  is 
just  as  Well  to  make  the  best  of  an  incurable  ill. 
But  t\)r  tlu'S  •  who  are  not  thus  compelled  to 
dwell  there  I  No  one  denies  its  advantages  in 
fine  weather,  and  no  one  can  appreciate  them 
like  the  man  wliose  life  is  spent  generally  in  the 
close  atmosphere  of  town.  There  ar^r  moment.-; 
when  brain  and  body  have  been  overworked,  and 
speculations  have  failed,  and  the  atmosphere  re- 
minds one  of  that  fabulous  pandemonium  where 
we  should  hke  to  consign  all  who  have  dis- 
appointed us  ;  when  the  thought  only  of  cool. 
green  fields,  and  waving  boughs,  and  murmuring 
brooks,  is  enough  to  make  us  forswear  I)rick  walls, 
gas,  hurry,  dust,  and  lies,  forever:  but  does  it 
last  ?  \Vu  rush  to  the  green  fields  ;  we  lounge 
beneath  the  waving  boughs  ;  we  arc  delieiously 
lazy  and  useless,  and  altogether  demoralized  for 
a  few  days  of  complete  inertion  ;  and  then  the 
brain  springs  up  again,  the  mind  wants  food,  the 
fields  pall,  the  trees  pall,  the  waters  pall ;  we  de- 
mand men  and  women,  and  conversation  :  we  are 
again  sharpening  the  mental  scythe  with  which  we 
mow  down  our  adversaries ;  and  if  it  is  beyond  our 
power,  or  our  princi()les,  to  rush  back  again  pell- 
mell  into  tlie  arena  of  business  and  of  work,  we  be- 
gin to  hate  the  monotony  wc  arc  unaccustomed  to ! 
But  what  of  the  country — that  paiadise  of  city- 
men — iu  autumn  and  in  winter ;  what  of  the  leafless 
boughs,  the  filthy,  muddy  lanes,  the  barren  gar- 
dens, the  evenings  spent,  night  after  night,  at 
home,  with  your  next-door  neighbor  five  nnies 
away,  and  no  resource  but  to  read  the  papers  till 
you  go  to  sleep  ?  A  country-house  always  feels 
cold  and  damp  in  winter.  If  it  is  a  large  one,  it 
has  long  corridors  full  of  draughts  ;  and  if  it  is 
small,  it  possesses  lion  id  glass  doors  which  open 
to  the  garden,  through  which  one  sees  a  panorama 
of  sodden  leaves  that  makes  one  shudder  to  look 
at.  I'eoplu  iu  the  country,  too,  get  in  the  habit 
of  leaving  all  the  doors  open  in  summer,  and 
do  not  get  out  of  it  as  completely  as  tiiey  should 
do  in  the  severer  season.  Generally  speaking, 
also,  their  chimneys  smoke,  and  tlitir  passages 
are  not  lialf  lighted  or  warmed  :  and,  altogether, 
give  me  a  house  in  town.  A  cozy  house  at  the 
West  End — not  too  large,  for  size  implies  grandeur, 
and  grandeur  entails  care ^but well  carpeted,  well 
curtained,  and  sufiiciently^^liaental,  not  to  ren- 
der it  incommodious — a  house  where  privacy  and 
publicity  are  alike  attainable — where  each  and 
every  one  is  free  to  come  or  to  go — where  the  only 
rules  arc  one's  own  inclinations,  and  the  only  rest 
a  change  of  occupation. 

Lidit  it  well,  warm  it  thorounhlv,  maintain  it 


:«■ 


'Ik 


102 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


*■'  I  ,*  ■ 


U\ 


«ts 


h 


¥  '■  'M 


with  an  income  not  large  enough  to  render  work 
unnceCHsary,  fill  it  with  the  daily  food  required 
by  the  nineteenth-century  intellect,  i)lace  in  it 
the  people  you  love  best — but  no!  I  won't  go  on. 
Could  I  conjure  up  sueh  a  lot  as  that,  I  should 
never  want  to  ^'o  to  heaven ! 

Fancy  such  a  house  on  a  dark  winter's  even- 
ing ;  bright,  light,  and  warm,  filled  with  tlie 
Bound  of  wit  and  laughter,  the  voice  of  music,  the 
deeper  tones  of  argument ;  or,  if  sueh  things  are 
not  forthcoming  (and  with  continuity  even  their 
glory  would  depart),  why,  "  Lcfs  go  to  the  theatre  !  " 

A  blessing  upon  blissful  ignorance  !  If  every 
one  knew  and  felt  these  things  as  we  do,  who 
would  live  in  the  country  ?  And  it's  quite  impos- 
sible that  wc  can  all  live  in  town.  I  begin  to 
wish  I  had  not  said  any  thing  about  it. 

Poor  Irene  felt  it  terribly  when  slie  first  went 
down  to  Cocklebury.  Imagine  turning  out  of  a 
place  like  Fen  Court,  where  she  had  been  enjoy- 
ing au  income  of  several  thousands,  to  begin  life 
anew  on  a  hundred  pounds  a  year,  in  two  meagre 
little  rooms  in  an  ill-built  cottage  in  the  country ! 
She  I'.ad  no  heart  left,  poor  girl,  with  which  to 
bear  it  br.avely,  and  she  felt  as  downcast  and 
humiliated  as  though  she  were  really  guilty  of 
what  slie  had  been  accused.  Master  Tommy, 
too,  did  not  ten^'  to  lighten  her  burden  at  this 
particular  moment.  Children,  as  a  rule,  do  not 
take  kindly  to  any  violent  changes ;  and  this 
young  gentleman's  character  had  developed  in  a 
marvelous  way  of  late.  He  had  no  recollection 
left  now  of  his  mother  nor  the  poverty  in  which 
he  had  been  reared  ;  but  quite  thought — if  ever 
ho  thonght  at  all — that  he  was  Irene's  child,  and 
the  luxuries  of  Fen  Court  had  always  been  his 
own.  He  liked  to  sleep  in  his  mamma's  bed,  and 
was  proud  that  she  should  wash  and  dress  him 
instead  of  Phoebe ;  but  he  grumbled  dreadfully  at 
the  loss  of  his  pleasures,  and  the  inconveniences 
he  was  forced  to  undergo.  "  I  don't  like  that 
ugly  basin  !  "  ho  would  say,  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  "  I  won't  be  washed  in  it,  mamma  I  It 
is  like  a  servant's  basin.  1  want  the  pretty  one 
I  used  to  have  with  the  little  roses  on  it.  And 
why  can't  I  have  jam  for  breakfast  now  ?  Where 
is  the  jam  we  had  at  Priestley  ?  why  couldn't  you 
bring  it  away  with  us,  mamma?  I  don't  like 
this  new  place.  There  is  no  garden  here  to  run 
in,  and  no  carriage,  and  the  woman  has  no  don- 
key— and  when  I  asked  her  why  she  had  no  don- 
key, she  said,  if  I  wanted  all  those  things,  why 
did  I  come  to  Cocklebury  ?  " 

"0   Tommy!    you   mustn't   talk  like   that. 
What  did  you  say  to  her  ?  " 


"  I  told  her  not  to  speak  to  mc  that  I'm  i 
gentleman  and  the  master  of  the  fox-hounds,  ani 
I  shall  go  back  to  the  Couit  and  get  my  donkm, 
Let  us  go  back  to-day,  mamma  !  I  don't  like  tliij 
nasty  place ;  there  are  only  cabbages  in  the  gar. 
den." 

"  My  darling  !  "  said  Irene,  as  she  took  tin 
child  upon  her  lap,  "  you  wouldn't  like  to  p 
away  from  your  mamma — would  you  ?  " 

"  No  !    You  must  come,  too." 

"  I  can't  go,  Tommy.     I  am  never  goinjiljafl; 
to  the  Court  again,  and  my  little  boy  must  tiv  I 
to  be  happy  here." 

"  Don't   cry,  mamma !    I  will  be  happy.  1 1 
will  get  the  little  broom  and   sweep   up  all  tU  | 
crumbs.     I  like  doing  that  much  better  than  ti..; 
donkey.      And   I  will  get  your  boots,  ami  y,; 
them   inside  the  fender,  and   then   they  will  U  I 
warm  when  you  go  out  walking.    And  I— I— ; 
continued  tiic  child,  looking  all  round  the  roon  | 
to  sec  what  ho  could  do,  "  and  I  will  do  hu  if 
things,  mamma,  if  you  don't  cry."    And  then  fc  I 
would  bring  his  mite  of  a  pocket-handkerchief,  an;  | 
scrub  her  eyes  until  he  had  made  her  laugh  insp 
of  herself,  and  think,  while  this  affection  wassraricl 
to  her,  she  could  never  be  entirely  unhappy.   Hut!  I 
hundred  pounds  a  year  is  very,  very  little  on  wlik:  | 
to  keep  two  people — it  is  hardly  enough  to  fit; 
them.     With  clothing  they  were,  of  course,  aiiifif 
stocked  ;  but  Irene  (who  was  any  thing  but  igic-j 
rant  of  the  value  of  money)  found  it  hard  cnou:!  I 
to  provide  herself  and  the  child  with  the  comtii::! 
necessaries  of  life,  even  in  sueh  an  out-of-the-ffay  | 
place  as  Cocklebury. 

It  was  a  wonderful  little  village,  dedicate! 
apparently,  to  the  nurture  of  old  maids — wlio,o:i| 
and  all,  called  upon  Mrs.  Mordaunt  and  ofrcreij 
their  assistance  to  her;  but,  though  she  wasncil 
ungracious,  she  declined  all  advances.  She  t;-) 
not  going  to  have  it  said  afterward  by  these t:I 
tuous  maidens  that  she  came  among  them  up::! 
false  pretenses  ;  and  if  they  had  but  known,  clu| 
etc. 

She  could  imagine,  if  any  rumors  of  hcruL-l 
fortunate  story  reached  their  ears,  how  t!i(;[ 
would  turn  up  their  virginal  noses  at  her  and  i;| 
poor  little  Tommy,  and  declare  they  had  suspccteil 
it  from  the  very  first.  So  she  kept  to  hcrsclfi:! 
those  miserable  little  lodgings,  and  made  tliC'l 
all  the  duller  and  less  pleasant  for  the  fact.  SIm 
was  devoted  to  the  child — to  his  baby-lcssctl 
and  baby-pleasures,  and  waited  on  him  liko;l 
faithful  nurse  from  morning  until  night.  Sil 
knew  that  it  could  not  be  long  now  before  Loi- 
Muiravcn  returned  to  England  ;  and  then,  if  sli 


%^' 


THE  HOPE  OF  A  NOBLE  HOUSE. 


103 


iidvunces.    She  ivi- 
crwavd  bj'  these  vj- 1 
e  among  thcra  up(:| 
lad  but  known,  etc. 


^.pt  ti)  bor  i'i.:4obition,  she  must  iiifoim  him  of 

Ilia  son's  o>:istoiu'c:    but  she  still  chcri-lKHl  tlie 

lione  that  h(.'  would  not  doprivo  her  of  liiui.  She 
I  iVli  so  desperate  in  her  loiulincs:",  that  sin;  meant 

;o  throw  herself  on  his  compassion,  and  entreat 

liim  not  to  tako  the  boy  away,  but  let  her  brinj; 
I  hiin  up,  OS  sho  had  de^iij^ncd  to  do,  and  feel  that 

ill'}  liii<l  something  left  still  to  render  the  future 

;,it  all  dark  to  her.  And  so  she  has  been  living 
I  tor  nearly  four  months  when  Muiraven  lands  at 

ih,)  "  Coaeli  and  Horses,"  and  dispatehes  his 
1  iiw'seniior  with  the  intelligence  that  is  to  shatter 

all  lier  hopes.  It  is  a  cold  day  in  January  :  the 
I  air  id  keen  and  frosty,  and  the  ponds  about 
I  I'oeklobury  are  frozen  over.     Irene  has  just  come 

h  from  a  long  walk  with  her  little  man,  who  is 
I  rerv  anxious — like  all  high-spirited  children — to 

h;  allowed  to  go  on  the  ice  and  slide  ;  and  sho 
IhH  bcL'n  at  some  pains  to  explain  to  hiin  how 
Idingorous  sliding  is,  and  how  some  littlo  boys 
Ititnblo  down  and  break  their  noses,  and  others 

t'lrable  in  and  are  drowned.  But  her  dreadful 
htirics  do  not  appear  to  have  much  effect  on 
IToamy. 

"/  wouldn't  be  drowned!"  lie  says,  conti- 
I  !?ntly.  "  /  would  got  out  of  the  hole  again,  and 
jrraback  as  quick  as  I  could  to  my  marama." 

"  And  your  mamma  would  give  you  a  good  whip- 
Ipini  for  being  such  a  naughty  boy,"  returns  Irene, 
Ih'ijlung,  as  she  divests  him  of  his  comforter  .ind 
Imriu  coat.  "  Xo,  Tommy,  darling,  I've  got  sorae- 
Itliiiig  raueh  nicer  for  you  than  sliding  on  the  ice. 
|Guc33  what  it  is  !  " 

"A  pudding  ! "  says  Tommy. 
"Yes!   a  pudding   for  dinner — a   nice  little 
IrouaJ  pudding  stuck  full  of  plums,  all  for  your- 
,    Make  haste  and  brush  your  hair  and  come 
land  eat  it." 

The  child  has  already  forgotten  the  luxuries 

bf  Fen  Court,  and  is  as  eager  and  excited  over 
klio  pudding  "  stuck  full  of  plums  "   as  though 

budding  had  never  been  an  cvery-day  occurrence. 
IVnd  yet  Irene  had   to   think   twice  before  she 

prdered  it  for  him. 

It  is  two  o'clock,  their  dinncr-liour,  and  when 
I'lio  meat  is  removed,  she  sits  by  the  fire  and 

fatches  the  young,  rosy-cheeked  rebel  gorniand- 
Jzing  his  pudding,  and  feels  quite  happy  and  con- 

ml  to  do  so.  She  has  so  identified  herself  of 
late  with  this  child — so  accommodated  her  con- 
rersation  and  ideas  to  his,  and  schooled  herself 
|0  believe   that  there  exists  no  one  elso  in  the 

«"irU  for  her  but  him,  that  sho  is  beginning  to 
I'cel  lonely  when  he  is  out  of  her  sight.  So  .«hc 
pits  by,  smiling  while  be  eats  and  talks  to  her, 


when  Muiraven's  letter  is  put  into  her  h.ind. 
The  ree  ignition  of  the  writing  makes  her  trem- 
blc  ;  but,  when  she  has  opened  and  read  it,  thi 
news  which  it  eniivi'ys  luiiiies  her  tremble  still 
more. 

Sho  cannot  believe  it  —  Muiraven  dose  at 
haml,  ready  to  couie  at  (Uiee  and  claim  bis  child 
— his  child,  boin  in  lawful  wedlock,  and  heir  to 
his  titles  and  estates — h-r  chill,  which  under 
these  circumstances  she  can  never  hope  to  be 
allowed  to  keep.  //<)•  chihl^  who  for  the  last  two 
years  she  has  brought  up  and  nourished  as  her 
own,  and  grown  to  love  as  sho  believes  that  sho 
Could  never  love  another,  to  be  taken  away — 
to  be  reared,  educated,  and  sent  forth  into  the 
world  without  her  having  the  right  to  offer  even 
an  opinion  on  the  subject !  She  reads  thiough  the 
letter  twice,  aiul  then  she  gets  up,  and,  walkim: 
blindly  into  the  adjoining  room,  throws  herself 
upon  the  bed  in  a  paroxysm  of  despair. 

Oh,  it  is  too  hard !  it  is  too  bitterlv,  cruelly 
hard,  that  this  too  should  come  upon  her  !  that, 
turn  where  she  will,  God  will  not  leave  one  loop- 
hole by  ^/hich  she  can  escape  from  utter  desola- 
tion !  She  is  weary  of  it  all — this  continucil 
struggle  with  misfortune — this  fighting  against 
Fate,*  which  only  results  in  bruises  and  hoart- 
iickness.  She  throws  up  the  game — she  will 
strive  no  more — sho  will  never  attempt  to  build 
up  another  affection  for  herself.  Let  him  take 
his  child  and  rear  it  as  he  will — the  farther  away, 
the  better,  for  sho  will  never  trust  heiseif  to  see 
him  or  to  think  of  him  again.  lie  v:as  hers,  and 
he  h  Muiraven's.  Ilis  father  must  accept  the 
entire  responsibility  of  him  henceforth,  for  she 
cannot  halve  nor  share  him — she  must  have  him 
altogether,  or  not  at  all  I 

"  Mamma — mamma  !  may  I  have  the  rest  of 
the  pudding  ?  "  The  piping  voice  is  close  by  her 
side,  and  the  little  hand  is  pulling  sturdily  at 
her  petticoats. 

She  raises  herself  languidly  and  looks  at 
him — at  the  dark-blue  ej'cs,  the  waving  hair, 
the  tout  cnsrinblc  so  like  the  man  whose  love  has 
spoilt  her  life.  Butthis  is  no  longer  the  little  out- 
cast — the  poor,  nameless,  base-born  child,  whom, 
spite  of  evil  tongues,  she  has  so  fondly  cherished. 
It  is  the  heir  jiresumptivo  to  one  of  the  oldest 
earldoms  in  England  that  stands  before  her — the 
hope  of  a  noble  house — the  legitimate  son  of  the 
Right  Honorable  the  Lord  Viscount  Muiraven — 
— the — the — Honorahle  77ioinas  Keir. 

At  the  thought,  miserable  as  she  is,  she 
laughs.     The  Honorable  Thomas  is  reassured. 

"  Mamma !    I   want  more   pudding.     Your 


■  iM 


164 


"NO  INTEXTIONS." 


.     <'   { 


^.\ 


V 


I  i^i 


littlo  Tommy-hoy  wunts  luoro  pudding  !  "  lie  re- 
pents confidently,  iviuling  ac(iuioseence  in  the 
nervous  sound. 

"  You  nre  not  my  little  Tommy-boy."  bIic 
commences  bravely  —  but  her  memory,  like  a 
dark  wave,  sweeps  over  lier  and  blots  out  all  her 
cournpe. 

"  Oh  !  I  cannot — I  cannot  part  with  you  ! " 
she  oric.s,  vchcmcntlj',  and  thereupon  becomes 
horribly  feminino  and  goes  off  Into  a  burst  of 
hysteric.!.  The  sobbing  and  the  shrill  laughter 
penetrate  to  the  lower  regions  and  bring  up  t'.ic 
liindlail}-,  with,  to  use  her  own  expression,  "  her 
heart  in  her  mouth." 

"  Lord  sakes,  my  dear  lady ;  and  whatever  is 
the  matter  ?  there's  the  poor  young  gentleman 
frightened  out  of  his  senses,  and  the  messenger 
below-stairs  waiting  for  an  answer,  which,  he 
Eay.«,  he  had  ordi  rs  to  go  back  to  the  '  Coach  and 
'orses  '  as  soon  as  possible." 

In  a  moment  Irene  is  herself  again. 

"  Oh  I  I  am  so  sorry — I  am  so  grieved  1  I 
must  have  ovcrwalkcd  myself. — Tommy,  my  dar- 
ling, don't  look  so  frightened  ;  naughty  mamma  is 
well  ogain  now.  Go  and  cat  your  ptid.iing,  my 
child. — And,  Mrs.  Wells,  if  you  will  conio  up 
again  in — in — ten  minutes,  the  letter  shall  be 
ready  for  the  messenger." 

She  drags  herself  off  the  bed  as  she  speaks, 
and  dashes  her  face  in  cold  water,  and  will  not 
give  herself  time  to  think.  She  is  ashamed  of 
her  weakness  in  breaking  down  before  a  servant 
and  a  child. 

The  Hon.  Tommy,  reinstated  in  his  chair,  and 
consuming  the  remainder  of  the  pudding,  as 
though  nothing  had  happened  to  disturb  his 
pleasure,  affords  her  the  leisure  she  requires 
once  more  to  peruse  Muiraven's  letter.  There  is 
no  question  about  what  she  must  do ;  there  Is  no 
option  pcrmitied  her  of  judgment  or  choice  ;  she 
is  simply  required  to  give  up  the  child  to  his 
rightful  guardian,  and,  whatever  it  cost  her,  ho 
must  go !  But  she  cannot  meet  Muiravcn.  Ev- 
ery misery  of  her  life  is  connected  with  this  man ; 
ho  may  even  have  been  told  the  stigma  that  rests 
upon  her  for  his  sake.  She  feels  as  if  she  should 
sink  into  the  earth  with  shame  if  she  should  sec 
him.  She  is  sore  still  and  quivering  from  the 
effect  of  the  constant  shafts  Fate  loves  to  drive  at 
her:  her  flesh  and  spirit  alike  recoil  from  the 
idea  of  discovering  her  misery  to  him — or  receiv- 
ing his  sympathy  and  condolences.  What  good 
can  I'is  friendship  do  her  ?  Each  time  they  meet 
increases  the  pain  of  parting.  It  has  pleased 
Providence  to  strip  her  of  every  tiling.     Let  it  do 


its  worst.     She  gives   up  love,  friend.ihip,  alU 
thenceforward  she  will  live  and  die — alone, 
she  sits  down  and  pens  the  note  which  ha.s  Ihh  i 
already  given  to  my  readers  ;  w  liich  tells  Miiir,i. 
vcn  that  the  child  shall  be  sent  to  him  when  aii.i  [ 
in  what  manner  he  may  choose  to  intimate,  1 
that  she  is  as  yet  too  little  recovered  fruni  lur  | 
lute  bereavement  to  permit  of  her  receiving  vi- 
iters. 

Muiraven  does  not  know  what  to  make  of  lu:  | 
letter,     lie  supposes  that,  having  informed  Im. 
that  her  adopted  child  is  the  result  of  an  inipn:. 
dent  marriage  between  himself  and  the  laundrc.--'.  | 
niece,  and  that  ho   has   but  lately  come  to  a  i 
knowledge  of  the  tiuth,  is  sufficient  of  itself  t, 
convince  her  that   this  was  the  obstacle  wliid  | 
prevented  him  from  coining  forward  as  a  suid: 
for  her  own  hand.     But  the  fact  is,  our  lieioii' 
had  never  associated  that  obstacle  with  the  iJu 
of  any  early  entanglement,  and  was  so  occupi'  1 1 
with  the  principal  object  of  his  letter,  namely,  Lii 
intention   to  reclaim   the  child,  that  she  neve: 
guessed  that  Myra's  death  had  broken  down  tl... 
barrier  between   them.     She   only   rememberiil 
that   the   man  who  had   assured  her,  six  slier; 
months  ago,  that  nothing  short  of  the  impossibili;; 
of  their  nnion  would  have  made  him  behave  is  I 
he  had  done,  and  who  was  likely  to  prove  a  hi  I 
more  dangerous  friend  in  her  present  conditicil 
than  he  had  been  before,  desired  a  pcrsontil  ir. 
terview  with  her  in  order  to  deprive  her  of  li.: 
last  pleasure,  and  she  could  not  grant  it  him. 

She  could  not  stand  face  to  face  with  Eiii| 
Keir  (as  in  her  heart  she  always  termed  him),  at; 
cover  the  desolation  of  her  spirit  with  a  siiiik 
And  so  she  would  rather  not  look  upon  his  faul 
at  all. 

But  he  is  an  impetuous,  energetic  sort  of  J 
follow,  whose  patience  does  not  rank  among  ii 
highest  virtues,  and  he  can  conceive  no  rca-cj 
for  Irene's  reticence,  except  that  she  has  ceasiil 
to  care  for  him.     Perhaps  she  never  did  care  m 
him.     Perhaps  she  mistook  her  feelings  all  aloEJ 
and  her  real  affection  had,  after  all,  been  given  kI 
this  immaculate  Colonel  Mordaunt,  the  rcnidi- 
brancc  of  whose  excellences,  after  four  monil-j 
burial,  was  still  so  redolent  of  sanctity  as  to  f::- 
bid  her  showing  ordinary  politeness  to  an  (i: 
friend  who  had  traveled  so  far  to  see  her.   .t| 
such  a  horrid  time  of  the  year,  too !    Added  i i 
being  obliged  to  put  up  with  all  the  dt:sa[/niik:.l 
of  such  a  God-forsaken  hovel  as  the  "  Coach  aij 
Horses." 

Upon  his  word !  what,  in  the  way  of  sacriCi'l 
does  Mrs.  Mordaunt  require  further  ?    But  woimj 


WEARY  NKJIITS. 


165 


,  lVieiul.-.1iii),  ;ilU 
I  dlo — alone.  >,, 
L!  which  has  Ijnr.  I 
ihich  tflls  Miiirj. 
to  hiiu  whin  au.i 
3  to  iiitiiuato,  hi 
covered  from  Lor  | 
her  receivhi^'  vi... 

lat  to  make  of  In: 
ng  iiifonncd  hti:. 
!sult  of  an  inipn;. 
iiul  thclaunilrt-v 
lately  eomc  to  a 
licieiit  of  it^c■ll'  i  | 
he  obstaelc  wlikl 
irward  as  a  suiii:| 
iCl  is,  our  heroin 
rtclo  with  the  iJul 
1  wa3  BO  oecupiri| 
i  letter,  namely,  Vi 
Id,  that  she  r.cvt: 
1  broken  down  tL| 

only   reiiiembcri 
ircd  her,  six  s1k::| 
of  the  imposslbili:; 
,do  him  behaYC  u 
iely  to  prove  a  brl 
r  present  conditici 
ircd  a  personal  fc[ 
deprive  her  of  k 
3t  grant  it  him. 

to  face  with  Eiiil 
ys  termed  him),  anil 
pirit  with  a  snii'.r 
look  upon  his  h\: 

inergetic  sort  olil 

ot  rank  among  ii: I 

;onccivc  no  rca.-i:| 

lat  she  has  cea:t: 

never  did  care  I.: 

r  feelings  all  aloe:  I 

T  all,  been  given  ic  I 

■daunt,  the  rcnia.  i 

after  four  momlj 

sanctity  as  to  l'::- 

)litencs3  to  an  ('.;| 

ar  to  SCO  her. 

ir,  too !    Added  i:| 

ill  the  dfs<i[/riiih- 

as  the  "  Coach  aiil 


ye  £0  tzi(je<i>iUn,  the  more  you  do  for  (hem  tho 
more  they  want.  When  he  was  beyond  her 
rcacli,  she  appeared  all  devotion  to  him  ;  now 
that  she  can  have  hiin  any  day,  ho  Kii|)posps  she 
will  keep  him  philandering  after  her  for  ten  years 
lioforc  she  will  make  up  her  mind  to  lake  him  or 
to  leave  him ! 

Why  on  earth  can't  he  forget  her  and  have 
lioncwithit?  Hasn't  he  had  enough  of  women, 
iliat  tho  moment  he  finds  ho  has  got  out  of  one 
jcrape  with  the  sex,  he  must  do  his  liest  to  plunge 
into  anotlier  ? 

So  he  says,  and  i<o  he  swears,  as  he  marches 
incontinently  up  and  down  the  parlor  of  tho 
"Coach  and  Horses,"  wearing  out  his  temper  and 
liij  shoe-leather  to  no  avail. 

At  first  ho  resolves  he  will  go  over  to  Coeklc- 

liiiry  himself  to-night,  and  try  if  he  can  see  Irene, 

I  Iwt,  on  second  thonghta,  he  abandons  tho  idea. 

Alter  her  note  it  would  not  bo  kind — it  would 

liirdly  be  gentlemanly  to  attempt  to  violate  her 

1  privacy  so  soon,     lie  will  wait   till  to-morrow  to 

■torm  tho  citadel  in  person.     Meanwhile  he  goes 

I  to  bed,  sleeps  but  indifferently,  and  is  up  at  a 

most  unusual  hour  for  him  the  next  morning, 

making  great  havoc  (notwithstanding  his  anxiety) 

in  the  breakfast  his  landlady  has  provided  for 

him,  before  he  turns  out  in  the  cold,  frosty  air, 

tnd  takes  his  way  toward  Cocklebury. 

Irene,  too,  gets  little  rest  that  night.  There 
I  i»  nothing  like  a  sore  heart  or  an  anxiou.?  mind 
llor  keeping  one  awake.  It  beats  green  tea  hol- 
llow.  She  had  sat  up  till  a  late  hour  the  evening 
|l)C'forc,  looking  over  and  arranging  Tommy's 
v.ardrobe,  and  dropping  hot  tears  upon  each  little 
I  article  which  she  had  ordered  and  planned,  if  not 
Imaue  with  her  own  hands,  before  she  laid  it  in 
Itbc  box  which  is  to  accompany  him  upon  his 
J  ioiirney.  And,  when  every  thing  is  ready  for  his 
I  departure,  she  crept  into  bed  and  took  tho  rosy 
child  into  her  arms,  and  watched  until  dawn,  by 
Itiie  flickering  night-light,  the  dark  curly  head  of 
Ihair  that  rose  and  fell  with  tho  heaving  of  her 
I'losora,  only  using  her  free  hand  every  now  and 
Ithen  to  wipe  away  the  tears  that  coursed  down 
Iher  fiicc.  Her  restlessness,  perhaps,  or  tho  in- 
Istinctive  knowledge  that  he  is  watched,  makes 
iTommy  wake  early.  She  is  generally  the  one  to 
jbo  roused  by  his  imperative  demands  for  stories 
lor  breakfast,  and  the  first  thing  he  does  now,  as 
Iconsciousness  returns  to  him,  is  to  pat  her  cheek 
|with  his  little  hand. 

"  Mamma,  mamma  !  wake  up  and  tell  Tommy- 
boy  about  Elisha  and  the  big  bears." 


Hut  he  is  surprised  to  find  on  this  occasion 
that  his  mamma  does  not  re(|uire  to  li;ive  her  eyc8 
violently  picked  open  before  she  complies  with  hid 
rcfpiest,  l)ut  eomnunoes  at  once,  in  an  unusually 
low  and  subdued  voice,  to  relate  all  his  favorite 
tales,  and  docs  not  discontinue  until  tho  dark 
January  morning  has  residveil  itself  into  some- 
thing like  daylight,  and  the  child  becomes  eager 
to  get  up  and  be  dressed. 

Irene  would  like  to  postimne  the  moment  of 
ri>ing ;  she  feels,  with  a  shudder,  that  this  may 
be  the  last  time  she  shall  ever  hold  her  adopted 
darling  in  her  arms,  but  the  young  tyrant's  orders 
are  imperative;  in  fact,  he  won't  lie  still  any  lon- 
ger. 

"  Tiiere  are  beautiful  little  ice  trees  all  over 
the  windows,  mamma,  and  I  made  a  nice  warm 
house  t'or  three  of  my  snails  under  a  cal)I)nge-leaf 
yesterday,  and  I  want  to  see  if  they're  happy  and 
eoiiifortable.  Dress  nie  rpiiek,  mamma,  and  let 
me  go  into  tho  garden  and  look  for  my  snails,  ami 
if  they  feci  cold  I  shall  bring  tlicm  all  in  and 
warm  them  by  the  fire." 

She  lises  languidly  and  puts  a  match  to  her 
fire,  and  washes  and  dres.ses  Mnii'aven's  child  as 
if  she  had  been  his  nurse-maid,  ^^lie,  who  was  tho 
belle  of  the  London  season,  who  has  been  the  en- 
vied mistress  of  Fen  Court,  kneels,  shivering  in 
her  dressing-gown  on  that  winter's  morning,  and 
waits  as  humbly  as  a  hireling,  as  lovingly  as  a 
mother,  on  her  lover's  heir.  She  buttons  up  his 
boots,  still  muddy  from  the  dirt  of  yesterday,  and 
carefully  wraps  over  the  great-coat  and  the  com- 
forter upon  his  little  chest.  And  then  she  takes 
his  chubby  cheeks  between  her  hands  and  kisses 
them  fervently  over  and  over  again,  and  lets  him 
out  of  the  sitting-room  door  with  a  caution  to  Mrs. 
Wells  to  see  him  safe  into  tho  garden,  and  goes 
back  to  her  bedroom,  and  cries  quietly  to  herself 
with  her  face  buried  in  the  pillow. 

God  only  knows  what  it  is  for  a  mother  to 
part  with  a  child,  whether  hers  by  right  or  by 
adoption.  We  talk  a  groat  deal  about  the  "di- 
vine passion,"  but  there  is  no  divinity  in  an  aflec- 
tiou  based  on  selfishness  ;  and  love,  in  its  ordi- 
nary sense  (that  is,  passion),  has  but  one  desire — 
to  secure  the  object  for  itself.  Whereas  a  mother 
knows  from  the  commencement  that  she  brings 
up  her  child  for  another.  And  it  is  that  reason, 
perhaps,  that  makes  maternal  love  so  generous 
and  expansive  that,  where  it  is  true,  it  can  afford 
to  extend  itself  even  to  those  whom  its  child  holds 
dear.  It  is  tho  only  unselfish  love  tho  world  can 
boast  of.  It  is,  therefore,  the  only  passion  that 
can  claim  a  title  to  divinity. 


100 


"NO  INTENTIONS." 


I' 


Ircuo  fcclit  all  tlii.^,  cvoii  a:*  (*lic  ciicH.  Slio  i.-i 
mlscrublo  iit  the  tliougiit  uf  imitinn  with  tin-  ihilil, 
but  sho  wouiU  not  lulvunto  one  artjiiiiioiit  in  her 
own  favor  that  should  deprive  hU  father  or  hiin- 
Bflf  of  the  enjoyment  of  their  natural  rij^hts.  She 
only  hopes  tiiat,  as  it  ntiut  he,  it  will  be  soon  over, 
and  heisulf  put  out  of  the  misery  of  nntieipation. 
Sho  lies  on  her  bed  for  some  time,  loKt  in  thought, 
and  tiien,  heurin<^  the  elattcr  of  eup.s  and  saucers 
io  the  adjoining  room,  starts  up  to  And  that  it  is 
niuo  o'eloek,  and  she  has  not  yet  commenced  to 
dress. 

There  is  no  particular  huiry,  however,  and  she 
makes  a  dawdlin}?,  untidy  sort  of  toilet  (women 
never  care  about  their  appearance  when  they  are 
miserable),  wondering  the  while  how  soon  Mulra- 
ven's  messenger  will  return  with  the  answer  to 
lior  letter.  'When  she  enters  the  sitting-room  the 
breakfast  has  been  laid  and  the  little  black  kctt!o 
is  boiling  over  on  the  fire.  f?he  makes  the  tea, 
and  glances  indifferently  at  the  time.  A  quarter 
to  ten !  She  Lad  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  How 
oold  and  hungry  her  child  will  be  ! 

She  throws  open  the  door  at  once,  and,  ed- 
vanclng  to  the  head  of  the  stair?,  calls — 

"Tommy! — Tommy!"  in  a  loud  voice;  but 
no  one  answers  her. 

"  Tommy,  darling !"  she  repeats;  "breakfast 
is  ready.  Make  haste,  and  come  in,"  Still  there 
is  no  reply.  lie  must  be  digging  at  the  bottom 
of  the  long  slip  of  uncultivated  ground  he  calls 
the  garden. 

Irene  walks  down-stairs,  and  stands  at  the 
open  back  door,  with  the  cold,  frosty  air  playing 
about  the  long,  rippling  hair  that  lies  upon  her 
shoulders.  "Tommy!  I  want  you.  Come  and 
have  your  breakfast,''  she  repeats ;  but  the  chi!  J 
is  neither  to  be  seen  nor  heard. 

"Mrs.  Wells!"  from  the  top  of  the  kitchen- 
stairs,  "  is  master  Tommy  with  you  ?  " 

"  Bless  you,  no,  ma'am.  Ain't  ho  a-gambol- 
ing  at  the  back?  " 

"  I  can't  see  him  anywhere." 

"  I'm  sure  he  was  there  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  Ue  must  have  run  down  the  road.  IIow 
naughty  of  him !    What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  I'll  send  my  Charley  after  him,  ma'am.  He'll 
bring  him  'ome  in  no  time. — Here,  Charley,  jest 
you  get  up,  and  go  after  the  young  gentleman, 
and  bring  him  back  to  his  breakkast.  Now,  look 
sharp,  will  you  ? " 

"  All  right  I    Which  way  be  I  to  go  ?  " 

■'  Why,  both  ways,  m  course.  Go  down  to 
the  village  first.  I  dare  say  he's  run  oflf  to  the 
sweet-shop.    He  said  he'd  a  mind  to  yesterday." 


"  How  tiresome  of  him ! "  says  Irene,  but  w  ui , 
out  any  alarm.     (What  harm  could  eonii;  tn 
Btui'dy  fellow  like  Toinniy  on  a  broad  cduiiir 
road  1)     "  I'm  sorry  to  give  you  the  tioublc,  JI,., 
Wells  ;  but  he  really  is  iuch  a  child  ! " 

"You'll  have  your  poor  hands  full  with  lijn, 
before  another  twelvemonth's  over,  ma'am ;  ai..^ 
that's  the  truth,"  replies  the  woman,  f:ooilti;i,. 
l)eredly ;  and  Irene's  face  blanches  as  the  wall. 
back  to  the  sitting-room  and  remembers  that  V- 
fore  twelve  hours  are  over  she  will  probably  Lavi 
nothing  more  to  do  with  her  trouljlesoniu  liii;. 
darling, 

*  •  •  •  *  I 

Lord  Muiraven  finds  the  walk  to  Cockkljun 
[ileasanter  than  he  anticipated.     There  is  Bom.. 
thing  so  exhilarating  in  the  air  of  a  keen  fn.-'v 
morning  that  our  troubles  are  apt  to  appear  mii;i1;. 
cr  or  more  bearable  beneath  its  influence  ;  ami,, 
he  traverses  the  short  distance  that  lies  bi twi.  [  | 
him  and  Irene,  (ho  probability  of  seeing  her  a);;i 
is  of  itself  suflicient  to  make   the  world  Ui\ 
blighter  to  him.     He  recalls  their  early  aflWti'r, 
and  the  interviews  they  had  at  Fen  Court,  aii(l,L.. 
ing  gifted  with  as  much  capability  of  selfaiiiii. 
elation  as  the  generality  of  his  sex,  feels  alnn-; 
confident  of  his  power  to  overcome,  by  argunkt:  I 
or  persuasion,  whatever  8cru])le8  may  have  lik. 
tated  her  last  letter  to  him.    The  leafless  heil;:t.-(  i 
cither  side  the  road  are  garnished  with  hoar-fri:' 
the  ground  beneath  his  feet  springs  cri?p  an! 
cheerily ;  and  as  Muiravcn,  with  his  hands  in  Li- 
pockets  and  a  cigar  between  his  teeth,  stiid.- 
quickly  along,  he  is   in   Cocklebury  before  1., 
knows  it.     On  the  outskirts  of  the  village  lie  scv. 
oral  farm-houses,  with  their  surrounding  moailiv 
— in  one  of  which,  close  to  the  road,  is  a  la:. 
pond,  just  frozen  over  with  a  two  days'  frost. 

"  Halloa ! "  ho  thinks,  as  his  eye  falls  upc 
it;  "that  looks  well.  Another  coui)lc  sucll 
nights  as  the  last,  and  it  will  bear.  By  Jou.  I 
though,  that  won't  do ; "  and,  coming  suddcnlviol 
a  stand-still,  he  regards  something  over  the  lieJp,  ( 
The  object  that  has  attracted  his  attention  is  tie 
figure  of  a  child,  none  other,  indeed,  than  tlicrtl 
creant  Tommy,  who,  having  escaped  from  tlil 
cabbage-garden  and  the  snails,  has  betliouglil 
him  of  revisiting  the  pond  which  excited  his  ennj 
so  much  the  day  before.  On  ho  plods  Eturdilyl 
through  the  wet  grass,  with  footsteps  evidentijf 
bent  on  trying  the  treacherous  ice.  Muiravcn  fori 
the  first  moment  sees  only  a  child  in  danger  of  jI 
ducking,  and  calls  out  a  loud  warning  from  where  I 
he  stands  ;  and  his  voice,  although  unheeded, bail 
the  effect  of  making  Tommy  raise  his  head  befortl 


A   HAPPY  ACCIDKNT, 


107 


lie  itL'ps  upon  tho  ice.     A.s  liu  does  so,  ho  U  i\'C- 
ognizeJ. 

Tho  foavloss,  saucy  littlj  fact',  tho  wii'o-opon 
eves,  tlio  cui'liu);  hair,  no  lu.-is  than  Iht;  hi;;h-lirc'il 
.lir  of  the  uhiUI,  and  tho  iiiaiinor  in  which  ho  id 
ittircil,  all  combine  to  make  Muiraveii  ruco^'nizo 
Iiii  Bon,  and  a.s  he  docs  ao,  and  ic.ili/.u.s  his  prol)- 
iliie  danger,  an  anxious  dread  whiidi  hu3  never 
hiiil  covert  there  before,  risics  up  in  hi.s  heart  and 
m\n'i  him  feel  that  ho  is  a  father.  ^Vi^hout  a 
M'mn-'nt's  liesitation,  he  leaps  over  the  lield-;,Mte, 
iiiJ  runs  through  tho  grass  to  save  the  chiltl. 
Cut  Tommy  is  not  to  be  outdone,  lie  sees  tiiat 
ho  is  pursued,  guesses  his  sport  is  to  be  spoilt,  and, 
«ith  all  the  energy  that  has  charactenzcd  tho 
N'orham  blood  for  so  many  generations  past,  de- 
termiuca  that  he  will  not  ho  punished  for  noth- 
iag.  Ono  slide  ho  will  have  first — ouo  delicious, 
Jaiigerous  slide,  as  ho  has  seen  tho  boys  of  tho 
villa;,'e  take  down  tlic  fro/en  gutters  ;  so,  running 
Joliantly  on  to  the  forbidden  playground,  he  sets 
'Mi  darling  liitlo  legs  as  wide  apart  as  possible, 
and  goes  gallantly  do.vn  tho  pond — oidy  for 
about  a  hundred  yards,  however,  wlun,  meeting 
with  some  obstacle,  his  cciuilibrium  is  disturbed  ; 


!  tumbles  head  over  heel.-'   f 


another  mo- 


:iieat  is  floundering  among  the  broken  ice.  Muir- 
aven,  arrived  at  tho  brink  of  tho  pond,  with  uU 
tk  baste  ho  can  walks  straight  in  alter  him, 
cruihing  and  dispersing  the  ice  riglit  and  left  as 
lie  goes. 

The  water  is  not  deep,  and  tho  child  is  easily 
recovered,  but  as  Muiraven  brings  him  to  the 
hank  he  is  frightened  to  perceive  he  docs  not 
stir. 

His  eyes  are  closed,  his  mouth  is  half  open, 
and  from  a  cut  across  his  forehead  tho  blood  is 
ti'ickling  down  his  faco  in  a  thin  red  stream. 

The  father'!  heart  stands  still. 

What  is  tho  matter  ?  What  on  earth  should 
liave  occasioned  this  ?     Can  ho  bo  dead  / 

lie  folds  the  boy  closer  in  his  arms  as  the 
iiorrible  thought  strikes  him,  and  hurries  onward 
to  the  village.  The  dripping  state  of  Tommy's 
clothes  and  his  own  nether  garments,  wet  up  to 
the  thighs,  excite  the  curiosity  of  tho  Cockleburi- 
ans,  and  he  is  soon  surrounded  by  a  little  crowd 
of  men  and  women  all  ready  and  anxions  to  direct 
liiin  to  Irene's  lodgings. 

"  Is  there  a  doctor  here  ?  "  he  demands  hur- 
riedly. 

"Bless  you,  no,  sir.  We've  no  parish  doctor 
nearer  than  the  town ;  and  he  only  comes  over 
Mondays  and  Thursdays." 

"  Run  on,  then — any  of  you — as  quick  as  you 


cm  to  Mi.'i.  Mdidauiil,  and  till  h>j.'  (<>  bavc  lidt 
water  and  blankets  ready  for  tho  cliild.  " 

In  his  anxiety  for  Tommy's  well-ddiii^:,  Muir- 
iivon  docs  ndt  consider  tlie  agony  wiili  wliicli  his 
intelligenco  will  bo  received  by  livne,  and  half  a 
dozen  villagers,  ciiger  for  a  rewaid,  tuar  helter- 
skelter  into  Mrs.  Wells's  presence,  to  tell  her  "  the 
young  gentleman's  been  drownded,  and  she's  to 
get  a  hot  bath  ready  to  put  him  in." 

Iiene,  who  is  gelling  fidgety  about  the  child's 
continued  alisence,  is  islanding  in  the  staircase 
wlien  the  message  is  delivered.  It  strikes  upon 
her  heart  like  a  bolt  of  ice. 

"  What ! "    she   says   in   a   voiee   of  horror. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  lady,  don't  take  on  !  "  exclaims 
Mis.  Wells,  wringing  her  hands  and  "  taking  on," 
herself  as  much  as  is  possible  on  t-o  thort  a  no- 
tice; "but  the  ])oor  dear  cliild  has  got  hisself  in 
the  pond,  they're  a-bringing  him  'oine  to  you. 
Lord  a'  mi.Tcy  !  but  hero  they  are  !" 

Irene  does  not  scream — sho  does  not  even 
speak  ;  but  all  the  color  forsakes  her  face  as  she 
stands  there  for  a  moment,  with  her  hand  pressed 
on  her  heart,  as  though,  till  that  chooses  to  go  on 
again,  she  could  neither  think  nor  act.  Tiien  she 
makes  one  or  two  f'ceblo  steps  t'oiward  to  meet 
Muiraven,  wlio  comes  (juickly  up  tiie  narrow, 
creaking  staircase  witli  the  boy  in  his  urms. 

"tiivc — give — "she  says  faintly,  us  .-he  en- 
counters him,  and,  without  a  word  of  explatiation, 
she  presses  his  unconscious  burden  to  her  breast. 

She  carries  it,  slowly  but  firmly,  to  the  light, 
and  then  sinks  down  upon  the  floor  in  a  kneeling 
posture,  with  the  child  stretched  across  her  knees, 

"  Oh,  my  lamb  ! — my  own  lamb !  "  she  cries, 
in  a  voice  of  anguish  that  might  pierce  the  heav- 
ens, "  110  one  has  the  jjowcr  to  liike  i/mi  from  mc 
tiow  !  " 

And  Muiraven,  standing  by  her,  hears  the 
words. 

"  Mamma,"  says  Tommy,  languidly,  us  though 
in  answer  to  her  appeal — "  don't  cry,  mamma." 

Irene  stares  at  the  child.  His  eyes  are  open 
— a  faint  color  is  returning  to  his  lips — he  is  oiicc 
more  conscious.     She  screams  with  joy. 

"lie  is  not  dead!"  with  rapid  utterance. 
"  Who  said  he  was  drowned  ?  Look  ! — he  smiles 
— he  speaks  to  me. — Oh  !  my  cliild — my  baby — 
my  own  darling !  God  could  not  have  had  the 
heart  to  take  you  away." 

And  thereupon  she  rocks  him  backward  and 
forward  violently  in  her  arms,  and  cries  a  plenti- 
ful shower  of  tears  above  him  that  relieves  her 
excited  brain. 


108 


"NO  INTENTIONH." 


MM 


"  L'lr'  bIc'.-H  voii,  my  <liftr  Imly,"  !<nyH  thonyin. 
patlil/iiiK'  Mm,  WoIIh,  "tliu  dinir  yoiinR  gcnl'-- 
iiianV  no  iiiiire  (lrowiiilf<l  limn  I  nm !  Scr  Ikuv 
Iic'h  n-trylii^;  to  niNc  lii-m  IT,  llu>  )>ic(ty  di'nr ! 
Let  tnc  tiiko  him  rroiii  ynii,  imt'iini.  Ilo  miixt  bo 
a  «lonl  too  lii'iivy  for  your  luiiis." 

"  Let  mo  place  li'iiii  in  tin-  licil,"  rhvh  Miiir- 
Rven,  pcntiy. 

"  No  !  no !  I  iim  quite  ublo  to  crtrry  lilm,"  Ircno 
nnswi-rn,  st«;.').'('ring  to  lii'i'  ti'ut.  "  >fr-'.  Wcll^, 
let  me  have  tiie  hot  bath  at  once,  or  ho  niny  take 
n  chill. — Make  up  the  fire,  Su.-an,  and  boil  his 
lircaJ-anil-milk. — And  maniiua  will  undress  you. 
Tommy,"  nhe  continues,  in  Hoft,  cooinp  neccntH 
to  the  child.  "  Mamma  will  take  all  thc.«o  wet 
clothes  oil'  her  little  Tommy-boy,  and  put  him  in 
a  nice  warm  bed,  and  tell  him  stories  all  day  loiifr. 
.)h,  my  love !  my  baby  ! — what  should  I  have 
done  if  I  had  lost  yon!  " 

And  HO,  nmrmuring,  she  passes  with  her  bur- 
den from  Muiraven's  view  into  the  adjoininp 
apartment,  whence  he  is  made  copiizant,  witliout 
jmrtaking  of  the  nursery  mysteries  that  ensue, 
and  result  in  Master  Tommy  being  tucked  up 
very  dry  and  warm  nnd  comfortable  in  ln''  nd 
apparently  without  any  more  injury  than  i  .m- 
veyed  by  a  strip  of  diaehyhm-plaster  aiross  his 
forehead. 

It  is  nearly  an  hour  before  Irene  appears 
again,  and  Muiraven  cannot  help  thinking  she 
has  made  her  absence  longer  than  was  necessary. 
As  she  enters  the  sitting-room  she  looks  pale, 
harassed,  a'ul  wcarj'.  All  her  fire  has  departed, 
to  bo  replaced  by  a  nervous  tremor  that  will 
hardly  permit  her  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

He  meets  li"r,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"At  last,  I  suppose  I  may  say,  Mrs.  Mordaunt, 
that  I  hope  I  see  you  well." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  have  appeared  very  rude," 
she  stammers  ;  "  but  the  shock — the  fright  of 
this  accident — " 

"  Pray  don't  think  it  necessary  to  apologize. 
I  can  make  every  allowance  for  your  forgetfulno.ss. 
It  IS  fortunate  I  was  on  the  spot." 

"  Then  it  was  you  !  I  have  heard  nothing, 
remember.     I  have  had  no  time  even  to  inquire." 

"  Oh,  it  was  undoubtedly  uic.  I  was  taking  a 
constitutional  along  the  Coeklebnry  high-road 
this  morning,  when  I  came  upon  the  young  rebel 
about  to  make  an  experiment  in  sliding.  I  shout- 
ed to  him  to  stop ;  but  it  was  no  use.  lie  would 
have  his  own  way,  so  I  had  to  go  after  him.  It's 
lucky  the  water  was  Hot  very  deep  nor  the  ice 
very  strong,  or  I  might  not  have  fished  him  out 
in  time.    As  it  was,  breaking  the  ice  head-fore- 


moKt  Rtunned  hhii;  and  lunl  there  not  been  help 
at  hand,  I  don't  supposo  you  would  liare  seen  ilio 
young  g<  ntleman  again." 

He  speaks  indill'erently,  as  lliough  tlic  nmttir 
were  not  of  much  eonsefpietice  to  either  of  llitm; 
but  dhe  Is  trembling  all  over  willi  gnititudo. 

"Oh,  how  can  I  thank  you  sullictcnily  I— lion 
can  I  say  all  I  feel  at  the  child's  recovery  I  ] 
shall  never  forgo*  it  ns  long  as  I  live,"  Tin  n  sIk 
remembers  that  ti.'"  boy  is  his,  and  not  hers,  anl 
blushes  at  what  may  seem  presumption, 

"You  nui''t  be  very  thankful  too,"  she  ail '  , 
timiilly, 

"Oh,  of  course — of  course,"  lie  says,  tumin- 
away. 

He  Is  so  bitterly  disappointed  at  her  rception 
of  him.  It  seems  as  though  she  had  forgnCii, 
every  thing  tliat  has  ever  taken  filaee  belwir:, 
them.  Hut  it  is  coming  back  upoti  her  now  oiilv 
too  vividly. 

"  I — I — Imve  not  oll'cred  you  any  thing,  Lord 
Muiravi'n,"  she  says,  glancing  at  the  teapot  an'l 
the  toast-rack.     "  Have  yon  breakfasted  ?  " 

"  Y.'s— thanks." 

"Won't  you  take  another  v\i\-  of  tea  or  3 
glass  of  w  ine  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  fiu'  wine  so  early  ;  but,  if  I 
might  venture  to  ask — if  you  have  such  a  thins 
in  the  house  as  a  little  brandy  ?  " 

His  teeth  chatter  as  he  8i)c;iks.  She  looks  kv 
quickly. 

"  Are  you  no»  m  ell  ?  " 

"  I  feel  slightly  chilled — rothcr  damp  about  tbe 
extremities,  iu  fact." 

She  glances  at  his  habiliments,  and  sees  wiili 
horror  that  bis  trousers  are  soaked  through  up  to 
the  waist. 

"  C(",mI  Heavens!  Lord  Muiraven.  How  did 
that  happen  ?     Did  you — you — fall  in  too  ?  " 

"Not  exactly;  but  you  can  hardly  expect  a 
man  to  fish  a  child  out  of  four  feet  of  icci 
water  and  keep  warm  and  i^-y  at  the  Fan.i 
time." 

"And  I  never  thought  to  ask  if  you  required 
any  thing!" 

Iler  face  turns  red  with  shame,  and  witli  a 
deeper  feeling,  that  is  half  self-reproach  and  hall 
anxiety  lest  ho  shoeld  come  to  harm  through  lior 
neglect. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  me,"  ho  answers,  laconic.ally. 
"  I  shall  do  well  enough  ;  ami  I  didn't  expcd  tliat 
you  would  think  about  it." 

"  Lord  Muiraven,  please  don't  say  that.  Vhat 
can  I  do  for  you  now  ?  You  ought  not  to  remain 
in  those  wet  clothes.    I  know  it  is  very  danger. 


nEViVAL  OF  FouMr;a  luvi:. 


I(!U 


"  lio  sav.=,  tiimiii- 


ks.    She  looks  dii 


er  damp  nhout  tlic 


i  if  you  required 


.,ii<.  Shall  I  xonil  u  dkiii  ti>  tho  'Cuach  nml 
llorsi'S '  for  a  chaiipo  *  " 

"No,  timuk  Jim.  I  think  I'll  hcttor  n.llk 
lack  niynolf.  If  you  will  nivc  mo  u  ;;liis.'j  of 
l.Miiily — "    Hut  he  U  niilvci-inf^  as  ho  spoaks. 

Sho  (Urn  to  tho  bill  all  cxclti'mont  and  i'iij^lt- 
«s  npiin,  and  orderu  tho  servant  to  bring  wliut 

l.e  Jc.iil't'8. 

"Hut  thiit  is  not  nufllcifiit ! "  sdi  ■  cxcliilniii  as 
:  .  Jrinkd  the  hiiindy — "I  am  »iii,  that  U  nut 
-jllii'icnt.  And  I  om  so  helpK'ss  to  do  more  fur 
t(i;i.  Lord  Muirav(;n,  do  po  homo  I  It  sfom*  in- 
l;o-pit.ibIc  to  sny  so;  but  I  am  Huro  it  will  bo  ttw; 
j.ifoiit  thing  to  do.  (io  and  gi.t  dry  cl()thL'.4  on 
Ivouatonce — oh!  how  you  aro  trombling! — mid 
;o  to  bed,  or  do  niiy  thin;?  thnt  '\*  nciOHrsary, 
I  Yo'i  sii'iuld  take  care  of  yourself  for — for — evtuy. 
iKxly'a  sake." 

lie  turn.l  and  look'*  lU  her. 
'■  If  I  go,  may  I  come  a;,'ain  ?  " 
"For  tho  chihl  ? "— ncrvouidy.    "  Oli,  yes,  of 
lonrso;  but  ho  had  better  wait  until  to-morrow 
I  n  IV,  bad  he  not  V  " 

"I  should  not  tliink  of  moving  him  to-il;\y. 
I  Till  to-morrow,  certainly;  and  perhaps  I  shall  .-co 
yo'i  before  then.     (!ood-moruing." 

lie  walks   down-staira   almost  abruptly,  and 

!  avcs  her  to  hcrsilf.     As  soon  as  he  is  ;;ono  she 

\>Xi  down  and  drinks  her  tea,  and  feels  as  thou^'h 

.•ho  had  but  just  wakened  from  some  fearful  mid- 

|ni;;Iit  dream  to  find  that  it  was  morning'. 

*••••■ 

Tommy  sleeps  quietly  for  half  tho  day,  and  is 
I  miraculously  good  the  other  balf.  Tho  cut  upon 
Ibis  forehead  has  made  his  bead  ache,  and  he  is 
Uislnclincd  for  any  thing  but  to  lie  still  and  hoar 
I  Irene  read  to  him;  and  when  ho  is  wearied  of 
hint,  and  closes  his  eyes  in  sleep,  she  sits  beside 
lliiiu  offering  up  thanks  to  Heaven  for  his  prrser- 
Ivation,  and  thinking,  not  without  some  qualms 
I  of  self-reproach,  of  tlic  man  whose  claims  to  sym- 
Ipatliy  she  had  almost  ignored  in  her  alarm  about 
lliis  son,  but  who  is  nevertheless,  though  she  will 
iMot  acknowledge  it,  ten  thousand  times  dearer  to 
llier  than  Tommy  can  ever  hope  to  be.  As  she 
;it3  in  the  darkened  room  recalling  his  features 
land  the  sad  air  with  which  he  greeted  her,  her 
llioart  pleads  for  him  and  for  herself;  and  ,-hc 
I'poaks  hi^  name  in  a  fond  low  whisper,  while  slie 
Icntrcats  him  not  to  think  hardly  of  her  for  her 
[reecption  of  liim.  "  If  \on  only  knew,  Eric  I — 
pf  you  01,  y  kn>  >v' !  "  she  keeps  on  repeating,  until 
pier  fancif  1  colloquy  resolves  itself  into  tears. 

In  the  evening,  whi  u  Tommy  has  fitiLdied  hi,; 
Itea,  sitting  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl  upon  her  knee 


\>\  I  '.  drawing-room  lire,  and  ban  lici'ii  tarried 
back  to  bed  ag.iiii,  h  i  heart  lcai>s  to  hear  Muir- 
aveii's  step  iiMoii  tho  <tair-i.  "How  foolish  of  me," 
hlic  thinks,  as  nho  liolts  iilo  the  beilruom  '">  re- 
cover In  rself,  "  wli"n  wo  chall  never,  luter  be 
any  thing  but  friends.  It  Kric!  (>,  niy  love!" 
And  then  »\w  falls  to  kissing  Tommy  till  »hc 
nearly  wakes  him  uj)  again, 

"-Mrs.  Mordaunt  ! "  «ay<  Muir-iven  llirnugU 
the  hulf-closril  door. 

"  I  am  ciiming,  L'M'd  Muiiavcnl  "  And  in  » 
minute  sho  appears  bcforo  him,  "I  hope  \w\ 
have  f!iki-n  no  harm  from  your  Inmicrsion  thi^ 
morning.  1  have  bei  n  reproaching  niy-elf  for 
my  carelessness  ever  sinca  ;  b>it  I  never  thought 
that  you  were  wet." 

"  Pray  don't  think  nliotit  it  again.  I  iim  nil 
right,     How  is  tho  boy  V  " 

"Qniti!  well,  thank  voii.  He  i-  aileep. 
Would  you  like  to  see  himV"  Hlie  leads  tlie 
way  into  tho  next  room,  and  they  stand  beside 
tho  bed  t'>'-:ether  looking  at  the  -leeping  cliiM. 
Presently  Miiirav(  n  sloops  down,  and  kisses  hin> 
upon  the  forehead. 

"  Pool'  little  chap  !  "  he  ?ays,  softly. 

"  Lucky  lit  lie  ch  ip,  you  moan,"  replies  Irene, 
speaking  far  more  cheerfully  than  she  feels. 

"  To  have  ymi  to  love  him  and  look  after  him. 
Ye-." 

"!!(!  will  not  h:iv(>  that  long.  By-the-waf, 
Lord  Muiiaven,"  as  iliey  return  to  the  sitting- 
room,  "please  tell  nn— I  would  rather  know  at 
onee — are  you  going  to  t  il.i'him  away  to-morrow 
or  the  next  day  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  take  him  away  at  all." 

"  Hut  under  the  cireunistances,  eonsldorinij; 
that  he  is—" 

"  Do  you  love  him  very  much,  Irene  ?  " 

"  O  Lord  Sluiraven,  you  need  not  ask  mc 
that !  You  know — you  vimt  know — "  Tears 
prevent  her  finishing  tho  sentence. 

"  Thcp  keep  tho  child.  I  have  no  wi.sFi  to 
part  you." 

She  looks  up  in  astonishment  with  sweet,  wet 
eyes  that  make  him  tremble  with  e.agemcss  to 
fold  her  in  his  arms ;  but  h  >  only  moves  his 
chair  a  little  nearer  to  her  own. 

"  K<'rp  him  !  But  how  can  I,  knowing  he  is 
your  lawful  son?  It  couM  not  be  for  long,  you 
see;  in  a  very  few  years  his  education,  hia  wel- 
fare, his  station  in  life,  every  thing  would  com- 
bine to  part  tis  ;  and  I — forgive  me  for  saying  so 
— but  I  have  had  so  many  partings,  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  not  undergo  another.  No  ;  it  is  best  it 
should  be  as  you  first  intemled.    He  is  your  heir. 


170 


"NO   INTKXTION'." 


Talic  liim  away,  and  rear  him  tu  bo  u  roiiifoi't  to 
}'uu,     i  liiiw.'  no  loiii^iT  lot  nor  piirt  iu  liiiii." 

"Initio!  Irtiiu!  1  ciiiiiiot  Ijcar  tlie.Ho  Iimiih."' 

"  I  iiiii  vi'i')'  weak  to  l<  t  tlu'iu  lIoH',  1  diiln't 
iiii'un  it ;  but  you  know  how  Imrd  it  i.'t  for  a  \voni> 
itii  to  ri'.itraiu  thciii.  Don't  h't  uh  (H.^vuHrf  tho 
MMttcr  uiiy  iiioi'c.  lli.'i  cicitiiL'.'t  aru  nil  inii'lviil 
iinil  roady  to  jjo,  uml  I — I  itiii  micly  to  n'.ii;^a 
liim." 

'•  Von  lovo  him  (ilMinut  no  well  us  if  yiiu  wtic 
lii.s  nioilirr." 

"  I  llilnlv  almost  as  woll." 

"  Vou  have  lw(>|)t  uiid  lool<id  after  liint  for  two 
lonK  years,  duiin;;  wiilcli,  wiliioiit  your  caw.  in- 
nii};ht  liavc  ilicd ;  and  do  you  tliink  tliat  I  will 
part  you  now  ?  Never  1  Irene,  you  have  ueted 
as  a  niotiicr  towanl  niy  child.  Don't  give  liini  up. 
lie  liis  real  niollier  now." 

Ho  has  COMIC  ([uitu  close  to  her,  and  got  pos- 
BCHsion  of  her  hand ;  hut  tin;  fnco  »\w  turii:i  to 
hiii  16  pujued  with  doul)t  and  niiseoneeptlon. 

"Eric,  what  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  I  mean  that  tlio  barrier  tlmt  has  Hiioijed 
both  our  loves  is  brultcn  down,  Irene;  tliat  you 
and  I  arc  free  to  lovc.^' 

"Good  God  1  " 

"  Have  j'ou  not  guessed  it '?  Did  you  not  un- 
dertitaud  that  the  obstacle  that  kept  mo  yeard 
ago  from  asking  you  to  bu  my  wife  was  tliis  same 
marriagc-tio  wliieli  was  broken,  but  not  disan- 
nulled ;  which  fmrn  sliame  I  had  ke|>t  a  secret 
from  the  world  aiid  my  own  father,  and  dared  not 
divulge  even  to  youiself '/  And  can  you  wonder, 
after  what  has  passed  between  un,  tiiat,  finding 
myself  once  more  free,  you  find  me  here?  " 

lie  has  clasped  botli  arms  around  her  waist, 
and  flung  himself  upon  the  ground  before  her ;  and 
bIio  has  placed  her  hands  upon  his  hair,  and, 
with  blurred  and  misty  siglit,  is  gazing  blindly  into 
the  depths  of  the  violet  eyes  that  are  fixed  so 
passionately  upon  her  own. 

"  Irene,  my  darling,  my  angel,  answer  me. 
Are  you  to  be  mine  J  " 

"  Yours  ?  "  she  says,  dreamingly. 

•'  Yes,  mine — my  wife — my  very  own  forever  ! 
Think  of  the  years  I  have  been  waiting  for  tlii.s 
happiness,  and  don't  keep  me  in  suspense." 

But  she  startles  him  by  suddenly  leaping  from 
her  chair  like  one  possessed. 

"Ob,  I  never  thought!  I  never  dreamed,"  she 
says  rapidly,  in  a  kind  of  feverish  delirium,  "  that 
it  was  ilutt  that  separated  us. — Tommy,  Tommy, 
wo  shall  never  part  again ! "  and  thereupon  the 
leaves  her  lover  standing  by  himself,  and,  running 
to  the  next  room,  falls  weeping  on  his  child. 


Muiruvcn,  with  u  cotiiicul  look  of  dinappoin:. 
nient  cm  hi*  face,  follows  and  HiitmU  betide  Int. 

"  I've  not  liad  an  amwer  to  my  iiue-llon,"  L' 
nays,  presinily. 

She  turns  in  all  luv   fiank,  glowing  m<iiiul. 
bood,  and  throws  heiself  into  his  arms. 

"O    Kiiel "    ulie   Mighs    eonlillteilly,    "v.l, 
need  of  mswer  ?     Why  have  1  luvtd  Ihit  childi " 

Have  you  ever  watched  tho  procoxa  i.f  li:,ii. 
ting  on.'  of  your  own  soeks  ?     1  appeal,  of  euu. 
to  my  maseuline  readers.     If  you  have,  I  am  :<i:r>. 
it  appeared  a  very  incomprehensible  sort  of  Ihj.. 
ne>'s  to  you,  and,  until  the  work  came  to  un  in! 
and  the  sock  appeared  iu  its  proper  person,  y  . 
would  have  been  pii/.zled  to  decide  how  on  c.ii: 
it  was  ever  going  to  turn  into  a  soek  at  all.    TL 
first  few  rows,  with  the  exception  of  a  stitili  ui!i 
ed  here  or  decreased  there,  go  smoothly  nii)ii(;!i 
but  whcnit  comes  to  the  toe  and  heel  cii.-i-t  it  : 
a|iparently  all  inextricublo   confusion,  until  t: 
last  (titch  is  knitted  and  tho  worker  cai/i  r 
Knitting  a  sock  and  unraveling  the  plot  of  a  i ,:. 
Kutional  novel,  are  two  very  bimilur  lhing:<.   i; 
has  been  dillicult  at  times,  I  dare  say,  to  trace  (t- 
reason  of  some  of  the  actions   iu   this  jiresi.!.; 
story,  and   tho   "too   and  heel   crisis"   wu.«,  I 
tliink,  a  "regular  stumper;"  but  I   trutit  tin:] 
all   has   been  explained  to   the   satisfaction 
the  reader.     And  now  tho  last  stitch  is  kiiiit'.i.l 
and  I   am   about  to  cast  olT,   I   should  like  ! 
leave  my  tale  just  where  it  is,  ond  my  hero  a: 
heroine  just  where  ihcy  are;  for,  since  antitip;- 
tion  is  invariably  better  than  reality,  I  am  (i:t 
they  have   reached   their  climax   of  happiiu." 
But  there  are  other  people  connected  with  tix! 
story,  in  whom  perhaps  some  interest  may  liav.l 
been  awakened,  and  therefore  I  will  throw  n.;- 
Hclf  into  tho  highest  condition  (all  novelists  ii 
clairvoyants),  and  tell  you  what  I  sec  happeiii:;[ 
in  a  year  to  come. 

Oliver  Mordaunt  is  living  at  Fen  Court  v'.tl 
his  aunt  Isabella,  and  they  really  get  on  wonJi  | 
fully  together.  Hiuco  Irene  has  lived  at  Bcrni.i 
Castle  he  has  conquered  his  ontipathy  to  holili ; 
Colonel  Mordaunt's  property ;  yet  ho  dwh'- 
that  ho  Bliall  never  marry,  but  leave  it  to  I: 
eldest  son.  Koua  verrona.  Doubtless  it  is  EiI 
the  first  vow  that  Fen  Court  has  seen  rcgistin- 
and  broken.  One  thing  is  certain,  however,  5l:i 
Quekctt's  baneful  presence  will  darken  its  wal 
no  more.  The  house-keeper  is  still  living  u|":| 
her  dear  Lady  Baldwin,  and  other  fashiouali 
patronesses,  of  whose  secrets  she  basbocome  p^H 
sessed,  and  will  not  let  them  forget  the  circu::'| 


lUKNK   AS    LADV    MIIKAVEX. 


171 


iiok  of  <Iliiap|i(jlijt. 
ilatldil  bi'^iilu  liir. 

*  my  iiuunlion,"  Lv 

t,  ^luwinif  Moiiai.. 
Iiiit  mini*, 
iiiii.  iittilly,  "  wli,: 
'  luved  thUchihli' 

10  proccus  <<f  ki.lt. 
1  uppcal,  of  com  I 
you  Imvo,  I  aiu  ji:rc 
I'lmiblo  BOlt  1)1'  liil/:- 

rk  catno  to  un  (inl. 
jiropcr  pei'Hdii,  y  . 
L'ciJi)  liow  on  cir., 
a  80ck  ut  till.  IL 
tlonofii  BtiU'li  ui!I 
)  Hiuootlily  ini)u;;!i 
uiiil  licx'l  t'li.M'*  it  > 
Mitifusioii,  until  r 
lu  woiUlt  cdiiU  ■;■ 
1J5  the  i>Iot  ulii  1  ■. 

•  bimilur  tUinj,':'.  \: 
larc  say,  to  tnni' ;:. 
ma  in  tliis  iiiist:.: 
L'cl  cris'w  "  "  a^  i 
"  but  I   trust  tk;| 

lliu   satisfaction  n 
ubt  stitch  is  kiiiil.;, 
r,   I   bIiouIU  like ; 
s,  and  my  lioro  w 
,  for,  since  nutiiii.] 
I  reality,  I  am  s 
iuiax   of  liiippiiit  ■. 
onncctcd  with  tin: 
!  interest  may  liav. 
ro  1  will  throw  n'i 
on  (;ill  novelists  a: 
lat  I  SCO  happciii:: 

at  Fen  Court  i^  ::j 
lally  get  on  woni  I 
has  lived  at  licivi  i] 
antipathy  to  hdliii : 
r;  yet  ho   dccl;U' 
but  leave  it  to  I: 
Doubtless  it  'a  f 
baa  seen  rcgistin- 
irtain,  however,  M:'| 
•ill  darken  its  vi- 
■  is  still  living  ui>: 
I   other   fashioual' 
she  has  become  P'  :■ 
forget  the  circus- 


it  mcc.  Painlul  M  lh>'  revelatiiiu  <»f  IiIh  liirlh 
)iruvi'il  to  him,  Ulivvr  woithl  n^it  lake  back  liU 
iiiicr  l;,'noninc(',  wiTo  it  In  l>c  coupled  with  n 
servant's  tyranny,  lie  hat  laivl  that  giio.^t,  once 
iinJ  fiircvor,  for  tho  Lolue«t*?wliire  M'udnunt.i. 

Ji)tl  fiay  i*  inarrie.l,  and  tho  po,<^o9sor  of  a 
vei'V  ni'at  littli-  faruj  on  the  out^kiit.i  of  I'riestley, 
nlicro  liii  mollier  and  her  family  live  with  hiiu. 
||i!i  love  for  hi.H  comiii  wm  true  cnou;,'h  whiio  it 
UstcJ;  but,  with  tho  disvovcry  that  sho  had  not 
It'  I'll  more  wninj^ed  than  her  husiiaiid,  sonio  of 
hii  chivalry  «Ued  out,  UoeH  that  fact  lower  him 
in  the  opinion  of  my  n'ailers?  He  had  u  lar^u 
an'l  (teiii'rou:)  heau — why  sliould  itrt  nll'ectioni* 
III'  nil  wasted  on  tlio  dead,  while  the  livini^  lived 
to  benefit  Sy  them? 

It  did  not  take  long  to  secure  Lord  Norham's 
liri{ivene.-d  for  his  son's  delinqueney,  and  ho  wel- 
comed Irene  with  all  tho  afl'ectioii  of  a  father, 
Mil  tho  pride  of  a  nobleman  who  rejoices  in  the 
|iiospect  of  secinj;  his  ancient  lino  carried  on 
liy  a  woman  who  would  adorn  any  station  in 
life. 

Tho  Ilonorablo  Tommy,  much  Pjioilt,  pas.ics 
hii  life  with  his  grandfather  at  Uerwick  Castle; 
but  Lord  and  Lady  Mulraven  spend  much  of  their 
time  in  London,  or  iu  visiting  their  friends  and  re- 


lution;4,  niakin;;  up  iu  f.ict,  fur  the  lun;;and  wear; 
widowhood  during  wiilch  they  were  divided. 

.\re  they  iiappy  ? 

.Ui !  my  friends,  i.i  onvbody  happy  in  this 
will  id  ?  Don't  try  to  peer  too  cloiely  into  Irene's 
second  married  life,  lest  yon  should  bo  disap- 
liointi'il.  You  expect  mo  much  fir  your  charactera 
of  fiction— .xo  little  (if  you  nro  reasonable)  for 
yourselves.  She  loves  lier  lui-hand  as  devoleilly 
as  it  is  possilile  for  one  huni;in  beinf?  to  love 
another — she  would  not  have  him  in  any  particu- 
lar diirercnt  from  what  he  is — she  could  not  hn- 
nj^'ino  the  horror  of  ha vin;,'  her  life  separated  from 
his  own.     And  yet — 

And  yet  (if  there  have  not  already  lieeii)  I  havo 
no  doubt  there  often  will  be  times  when  hhe  will 
wonder  how  she  could  have  made  herself  so  ut- 
terly mlserablo  without  him.  The  fact  U,  no 
creature  in  tho  world  is  worth  the  lui.^cry  of 
anoth'T  creature's  life.  We  jiine  for  them,  we 
rave  after  them,  we  strain  every  iiius(de — .'ome. 
times  wo  commit  every  sin  to  attain  lliem — and 
when  the  <;old  lies  in  our  hand,  it  turns  to  asho 
and  dead  leaves. 

Ah  !  mortals,  take  love  when  it  comes  to  yon 
— thankfully — admiringly.  If  you  will;  but  never 
sin  to  gras^p  it. 

The  only  love  which  satisfies  in  the  attain- 
ment is  the  love  in  whose  presence  sin  must  not 
be  named. 


THE     K  X  D . 


